Glass people

are falling

off of

High shelves.

All the

king's horse

and all of

his men

Could try but,

they won't.

You'll never

be whole

Again.

The image of what you see

is reflected on black crow’s eye.

Mustard moon is a mirror

with you engraved on one side

and me embossed on the other.

You are an intriguing stranger

filled with my thoughts

and reflecting my tomorrow

while I am merely an echo

of yesterday and the future

impregnated by your flood

of mirror images of our destiny.

I ride the peak of your cusp,

speak to you locked inside

as you sleep the slumber

that wears away darkness.

My eyes catch your sting

of secluded timelessness

and see who we are

and what we will become.

Anything.

That's what I

Would do

To have you.

Everything.

That's what I

Would give

To hold you.

Something.

That's what I

Am asking

From you.

Nothing.

That's what I

Am getting

Instead.

I am but 

A presence

Dwelling in

Your absence.

They all stood in rows, one after the other. They all looked the same with those welcome mats and manicured lawns and plain mailboxes and white fences. They all begged for individuality, something to set them apart from each other, and boy, was she going to give it to them.

She lit the match and watched the flame dance. A smile crept along her face as the fire reached for the surface. Wisps of smoke kissed the sky and the distinct smell of something burning filled the air.

"Burn," she whispered, staring in awe at the flame swaying before her.

"Get a better candle, won't you?" the man said, staring with disdain at the source of the dreadful smell. "Who even lights candles outside anyway?"

"Just grab the paint and let's get to work," she said. "These fences aren't going to paint themselves."

We live, we eat, we sleep, 

We lie, we cry, we die.

We fake, we take, we break,

Yet no one asks us why.

When one loses,

The other wins.

When one dies,

The other lives.

Even Ouroboros understands,

That we need to lose and change,

Our life, our time, ourselves,

After all, life is a stage.

Filled with masks, a pesky entertainment,

and a lack of real people.

I'm losing myself in this disguise,

Each step a death march, lethal.

How many roads have you crossed,

Mr. Traveler?

How many riddles have you solved,

Mr. Unraveler?

How many hearts have you seen broken,

Mr. Teary-Eyed?

How many have you seen awoken,

Mr. Relieved Sigh?

How many monsters have you encountered,

Mr. Vanquished Foe?

How many have you seen raptured,

Mr. Forgiven Soul?

All these inquiries I ask of thee,

Mr. Before and After

For one whose wisdom matches yours:

Of deaths and lives,

Ropes and knives,

He should surely have all the answers.

What is life,

Without its counterpart death

What is strife,

Without the decision of happiness

Can life or strife be forced upon,

The silent unsuspecting

Who have chosen whether dusk or dawn,

To live 'til death, as happy

But oh, says he who is contradicted,

Caught contemplating the freedom in prison,

If there is no life without death,

No suffocation without breath,

How then can any choice be chosen?

No choice can possibly matter,

If matter does not counter

Antimatter, which does not shatter,

Without its counter counting the latter

Truly, 'tis a paradox,

Its solution worth millions

And yet nothing at all,

Could solve its dastardly appearances

Its appearances which conquer,

Every thought, bright or somber

That if life can dwell,

With death as well,

Time cannot go onward.