Posts Tagged ‘sad’

I Know Some Lonely House


Over the rigid and dreary mountains,
down by the riverside, amidst withered stalks
of stalwart weeds, and murmuring leaves
of pallid colors piled on the ground,
stood a solitary, large carriage house,
forlorn, beneath the balding glabrous
spreading tree, as though,
shrouded in mystery.

Devoid of noise, of neighbors,
and of life; here, the sun
no longer rises.

And so, bleak are the nights,
boundless and bare,
but what tales, the moon can tell,
this rickety house cannot,
apart from the rude winter wind’s wild
lament and a worn-out,
passive photograph.

I know some lonely house down by the riverside
where one too many lonely souls used to

The Lies You Weave


You once breathed sunlight into souls,
within seconds it’s become a fiery mess –
the liquid burns brightly around your words
as they lash out like blazing daggers;
impulsive fables fall upon their ears.

How your lies are woven intricately,
these single stitches piece together
the otherwise unknown boundaries you set,
symmetrical walls valley all sincerity –
dances of defeat become a promise.

Wheels being spun all throughout the evening,
what a measurable affect you have
pity seeps through your transparent being,
and when the pieces begin to crumble
is the time my truth will be wished for.

To your surprise, all I will bring you
is the destructive fame you deserve.



Come sing with me to
A dirge for the end of the world
Stand with me as the stars unfurl
And toss their golden ashes to us
Stay by me while the sun meets the sea,
Take me home to the cries of bells smashing
Free of you, free of me,
Free of everything,
It’s just ‘us’ now never such a lie
As bodies
We will be the one thing that stands
Against all the petals that ride upon a shivering breeze.

All the mockeries of beauty that dare sing true.

So carry me
When the sun meets the sea
Take me home where I shouldn’t belong
From our seats in the grasp of the wildest dreams
We shall watch as the world tumbles
Down and dust

You always had a beautiful voice you know.

Under the wraps of the falsehood we live
We are
Let constraints of ficklest words be undone.
For we are the two that are as always,
We are the war-cry of a world newly begun –
Anew, for we are ever
We are the wings of the wind itself
Open up and we’ll show them hell!

Trivialities to the smoldering soul.

Again I whisper in my sleep of so much wonder beyond words
Your hold entices all the dreams that hurt for all their joy
Myrrh cupped in a palm that once had held
And calmed my trembling fingers
Traced out our lifetimes in the dust
And ashes of what we were

But why must the dirge always end as so
The elegy be misery
Why must the claw of the world grasp tight
So much that we had sought for
Caught, harsh, in the chains under skin
and for my nightmares call out
Word upon a wonder and a sob in the ravenous dark

The whispers in the crystal turn to screams in my tiring mind,
The whispers that you mask are always screams to my aching mind.

Don’t go.

The Writer, Ex


He says his thoughts are tangled like
Green thorn,
tangled and torn.

Once it was they meshed like gears,
Tooth to tooth and sound to ear,
The paper was singing
But now he can’t hear.

Oil, drips, somewhere,

Sap, forlorn. Dribbling and impotent.

Some dreadful irony,
(Iron, Irony.)
Cogs are brass; some alloy.
Parchment was flesh once
often a calf. Slaughtered for words.
They ate him – she burst at the seams.

Steam, pistons,
Stars mesh, points clash, biting.
He grabs the air, childish,
testing if his muscles will move.
Someone threw a spanner
he thinks.
The bastard.

Or not; now he is an ocean, where he was a shore
jetsam, salvage. Now he sees horizons.
Feels asphyxiated. The sky is too blue.

He never liked ballpoints.

The pumps had something human to them,
he thinks,
and the pipes pounding were like a blessed
Now it’s all electronic.
There’s something wry about the similarity.
His eyeballs ache terribly. Synapses fire, wanton.

He leaks, possibly. Somewhere.
The engine’s given up.
Maybe it was the breath.

An ocean and the conjunction is
rusting and
verdegris was always so much
Like a thorn.
Hissing crown, machine, thorn, word, thud,
paper sung
the ears mumble but they knock on darkness.

He liked to call them ‘she’.
He forgot why.



Please God, help me for I see hell
in the eyes of a mangy dog.
She crawled to my carport yesterday morn
nearly dead in the morning fog.
She laid her head on a cast out rug,
too weak to travel on,
a mud caked face and a shaking body
and her spirit almost gone.
Broken and bent, too weak to drink,
she stayed throughout the day.
I gave her water to show I cared,
but hoped she’d go away.
Night time came and with it peace
for the dog I could not see.
I’d heard her bark about one o’clock.
I cried for her … yes, me.
Me. The guy who shot the squirrels
the lizards and polliwogs,
and left their carcasses for all to see
drying on rotting logs.
I cried , yes me, for this was life,
too special to die this way.
In the morning mist I saw her spirit.
God put her here to stay.
I gave her food.  She gave me joy.
Who got the better deal?
She got warmth within her stomach.
her gratitude’s what I feel.
Her tail still wags, though her eyes cry,
her body’s still twisted and broken,
But now there’s hope in her teary gray eyes.
For two needing souls have spoken.


The Sad Café


A mug lies before you
filled with coffee
flavored with pain,
Steam of rejection
all set on a table of fire.

Hands that burn
attempting to write empty thoughts,
on a paper of doleful lines
and a pen that cries

You gradually relish your pain
an addict,
as if any antidote
would never heal you

Gazing at her vacant spot
(I once killed love,
left it to rot,
yet I enjoyed the torment)

Until aurora approaches
you sit here
Like it’s your reign.
You die…
while breaths tell you’re alive-
They lie!

Strength has come to its peak
Frailty cauterizes the heart
You wither slowly after the dawn
A lonesome in the café 
-Portrayed on the wall-
left to fade to gray…

Melas Oneiros


They tore my wings like zephyr
-and I; I sat upon that one
abstract oleander..


between the cold air
and a stale dream catcher;

whos webs antique
toward my thoughts of savior.

With each petal
to deteriorate ‘neath me
I wrote of unstoppable fires.
Never to move from
a single thorn

-only to feel somber-

and I held that stem for;
eighteen years
until dipped into an abyss

painting violent butterflies
-from memory-

worried they would re-appear

like the many nights
I curled ‘neath raindrops
frozen as stone;
detaching myself from
a trust I never knew.

and he, he thrashed
as if violent weather…

Slipping through cracks

to find myself spun
-unable to reach you-


*Melas oneiros also known as Epiales was the Greek spirit of nightmares. The term “Melas Oneiros” translates to “black dream”