One

A dark ally

the people of the street

a huddled mess

of refuse and refugees

Enter One

slick as black ice

black as a shrivled heart

teeth gleeming white

The snow drifts

the wind mummers

everyone winces

and no one notices

One is gone

with the another one

lonely days drift

like the snow until

One returns

as cold as neptune

but one is not enough

because now there is Two

A dizzying dance

of one and two

becomes three and four

and then

There are no more

the huddled masses disappear

and everyone rejoices

little do they know, dangers near

For One is not satisifed

with fourty-eight

From dark places

and forgotten people

One enters the home

His face no longer slick

He is now a smiling friend

or so he'll make you think

Timmy vanishes

and so does Sue

James was found behind the motorway

missing all four limbs

And One does not deny

his face as slick as ever

"I was alone, and you took me in"

"You were fools, and I took you in"

At first the people fled

as proper from a monster

But they could not flee

for he didn't chase

Unsteady peace

and humble offerings

The only way

to live with the beast.

Bow to the One

and give him his space

lest he decides

to make an appearance

Face to Face.

Human Art

My frustration is simply a pastel

rubbed along the canvas of my being,

Not alive. Not really.

Just art. Just a picture.

Upon my humble frame and marble shoulders,

hangs a whole host of feelings.

But I don't feel them.

You do.

I am the sculpture that envokes,

every broken heart and every fallen tear.

But the cracks and splashes don't belong,

to me.

Somehow, I have managed death

more perfectly then anyone before.

For I continue to exist,

and see my passage marked.

While others weep and others laugh,

I stand in exultation.

A specter who is blessed,

with the love of those behind.

And as my tomb closes,

And as the bust settles,

And as the earth consumes,

And as all traces fade away.

It will not be a body that is gone,

But a work of art,

Both tragic and uplifting,

The picture of a human life.

For Someone

I will die without an excuse to live.

And no one deserves to know

because I am no one.

So no one will care

because I care for no one.

And no one will survive

because no one is willing.

And no one will mourn,

because no one died.

So why cry for no one?

Because no one

could be

someone.

Ignorance spoken by a Foolish Lover

I can't wait to die.

To see the great beyond.

To know what's yet to be known.

To see what can only be dreamed.

I dream of stars,

and of places,

far beyond description,

leastwise to be spoken by me.

And I reach,

day by day,

to the places,

that are purer then thought.

But only thought is produced,

Because only thought is imagined.

Sometimes, despite the fog,

I see reality as it is.

As a place that is more real,

then the stones we walk upon,

that is more a part of ourselves,

then the lies we tell each other.

I find truth,

and it calls,

and it asks one simple thing,

to be told, to all who dare listen.

Hear my cry,

oh sad and joyful,

oh dead and living,

oh hurt and whole.

The world around you is right,

if only you look around.

Do not despair at death,

But welcome it as a friend.

However,

untill that day claims your soul,

or claims thy hollow bones,

Remember why.

You dared to live,

and fight for every moment,

as an explosion,

rather then a whimper.

Endings

The twisted pillar of flame,

Burnt omnipotently in the sky.

Consuming the very air we breath.

Consuming the very earth we live upon.

Turning the sky to a blazing orange,

a shade of rose, the color of magnificence.

The people burned like dead leaves,

unwilling to turn from the exquisite dawn.

The earth a ball of ash, the air nothing but smoke,

The flame raged on and on.

Rage is human, while flame is free.

The fire acted as it should, not out of malice.

A world scoured and clean,

A place of perceived desolation.

Emptiness is human, while nature is wise.

Empty space is an invitation to be filled.

When the blaze had burned its course,

a new flame began to flicker.

Not hot, but burning

Not frightening, but awe inspiring.

Not consuming, but creating.

Not fire, but passion.

So was born a new world.

The Black Promise

Evil,

Like the darkest place,

Like the blackest lie,

Has a home,

In the most disturbing spot,

Your heart.

You are capable of true murder,

crimes against the gods above,

disaster never thought of,

plague not ever contemplated,

destruction, complete and utter.

Your mind denies,

as well it should.

Our souls,

however worn,

seek goodness,

and wish to follow,

the right purpose,

that fills our dreams,

and makes us hope.

But even steel will rot,

and the pill that grants life,

can easily become a poison.

Just as we seek to create,

destruction lurks about,

and if we stop,

and stare into the night,

we can see and know,

the way to end a life,

to truly kill a human soul,

be that of an enemy,

or of your own.

We look,

in desperation,

to find a way,

to fight,

to live,

in a world where,

conflict is the only path,

to victory.

And we can find,

our personal knife,

our own wicked machination,

that can snuff hope,

silence prayer,

and end vitality.

So forever,

You will stand,

upon the scales of survival,

running toward the light,

and fleeing from the dark,

looking only to live,

wanting nothing,

but to deny the black secret,

that is written upon your heart.

"You can do something,

so terrible,

it would ruin,

not only your opponent,

but you as well.

And you know,

that you want to use it."

Come Autumn

A voice and face,

cure our amorous thoughts,

Just as words,

blindly fuel them.

These summer dreams,

do disguise my purpose,

and make me slumber,

when I should be awakened.

Come Autumn,

I'll remember.

That love is perfect,

and friends are better,

and meaning is real,

and purpose is difficult.

But life is to be lived,

not wished for.

And truth is to be discovered,

not hinted at.

Come Autumn,

I'll wake up.

For lazy summer dreams,

are naught but sloth,

Which is a sin more dangerous,

then any other.

For, sloth grows to apathy,

and apathy to true innaction,

Upon such arrival, the subject dicovers,

they have become a statue.

Come Autumn,

I'll blossom.

In a meadow of flowers,

each as lovely as the next.

Not a twin oak, together,

but alone on the barren plains.

My metaphors are thin,

and virtually transparent,

I hope then you can see,

the reason behind the rhyme.

Come Autumn,

and carry me away.

Too much love

Love on one side,

Love on the other,

Like a life spiralling,

out of control.

The tug of one,

the pull of another,

how could one man dream,

of loving only one?

Her nose,

Her smile,

The way she kisses your hand,

The barbs she casually throws.

All little things,

perfect things.

Sweeter then a strawberry,

and deadlier then the dawn.

But, oh,

The many ways,

and the many ladies,

that send me spinning.

It's a tragity,

It's a truth,

that love is meant for two,

when a thousand deserve it.

Despite our silly need,

to cage what should be free,

Love will fly towards the morning,

like the dove or the honey bee.

So, emulate,

their fine example,

pucker your lips,

and send your love sailing.

Collision

Tis a consumation,

A union, an ending.

Of two once perfect beings,

into one ugly monstrosity.

A human,

Happy in its ignorance,

Flew through clouds,

of excellence and ecxtasy.

A world,

Self contained,

Existing in balance,

One thing leading to the next.

One had what the other dreaded,

Each wanting and hating that desire,

Humans seeking meaning,

Earth seeking change.

But they lied to each other,

and created a true marriage,

where love fades,

and gives way to distain.

Humans saught meaning,

and found an entire universe,

but the vastness made them blind,

the possibilities killed themselves.

Earth searched for change,

and found it in equal abundance,

But it wasn't gentle tap so much as a,

pounding fist on the scales of life.

A world being eaten,

by the indecision of man.

A people being crushed,

under weights they ignore.

Self consuming,

Centre focused,

Self combusting,

Centre rotting.

Tis a consumption,

A cycle, an abomination,

Of two fundemantally sick things,

Becoming nothing new.

Rooms

A thousand miles in a tiny box,

Four hundred hours,

20 different rooms,

don't mean anything.

A door, a window,

one bed and a cabinet,

Quite and empty.

Lifeless.

Not exactly true,

Not lifeless, but waiting for life,

Not empty, but space for you.

But not for you, not you alone.

This room, the same as any,

is defined by the owner,

it could be a prison,

just as it could be a paradise.

You impose a feeling,

you interpret the mood.

A room is a room,

like any other,

In the inky blackness,

of the tiny windows,

The gentle glow,

of a simple lamp.

Elegance in pale tones,

and sparce furniture.

Solid oak and leather,

and vast space.

Make what you will,

of this mental image.

Whatever you tell yourself,

My truth is something new.

This is my uncles home,

a place too perfect to be real.

But with wine, family, and food,

this place is a heaven of a home.

So, look to your environment,

and try to behold the truth,

This place is only complete,

with love inside the walls.

The Road Trip, *Scary Music!*

Eternity crammed into three seats.

A lifetime in a car.

My life has become the road.

It's only been three hours.

The signs of decay are evident,

The cramping legs, the restless mind,

Oh dear lord, am I losing my head?

The road looks all the same.

I think I can see the curvature of the earth,

Whoa, thats amazing.

Isn't that physically impossible?

Hey, look, a bird!

I think I understand prison,

Well, in prison, there are criminals,

Big criminals.

My own mind is my cellmate.

It's like syberia,

only different,

Not really cold.

And no russians.

More like solitary confinment.

But no spounge walls.

That would be cool,

spounge cars.

Wait, did I just say spounge car?

My marbles are falling off the ball,

I'm slowly become the dullest bulb on the tree.

Mustard candlestick gloom.

Must finish the poem,

Must... record... final... moments.

I love you..... people... and I-

Hey, truckstop.

Bathroom,

food,

water,

and a walk.

I'm better,

Whoa, that was close.

It was almost like,

I was going crazy.

Whats that?

Four more hours?

Ya, I'll be fine.

It's only a road trip.

Through One Pair of Eyes

Everything you love will die.

Even time will claim the timeless.

Consuming beauty and order,

Decay and desolation in its wake.

But as humans, we are flawed.

Our eyes only see one truth.

Where heaven and hell exist,

Alongside good and evil.

To live in this temporary world,

We follow its fine example.

To live as transient beings,

and cling upon no ideal.

For the fires of hell can mezmerize,

If you don't deny them.

Everything has it's time,

There is no right or wrong.

And so is shown, humanities flaw,

our fine almightly blunder,

what drives us to live like hermit crabs,

and shy away from freedom.

We live upon an island,

looking upon the world.

Upon our heads is one perspective,

and we are reluctant to change.

And when we stand,

with our positions fixed.

It's easy to say that the stars are set,

and that the tide is never ending.

But one mans trash,

can be gold in anothers hand,

Just as the wiles of the storms,

can persuade the young mind.

Rejoice at the barren plane,

or laugh beside the coffin.

Know that this world of ours,

is yours to see, shape, and create.