Untitled.

Fragmentary.

It's like talking to a scarecrow,

Or-- perhaps-- it's a fairywren,

What happens when you think too much--

Trying to grab everything the river has to offer.

A shattering-- spiraling-- abysmal.

Open the curtains a bit--

Is the light really that much better?

Arrhythmia.

Dies irae, dies illa,

A distinctly remembered bleak December,

Remember'd not once more.

I feel-- I feel-- I think too much;

My mind, o'er mountain-halls,

Will become full, as it were once before,

Hark! how full of scorpions is my mind?

Enough, it would be, to turn me blind enough

To lose what was ours.

Ours? Ourselves?

For this I had doubt,

A (rather) sudden halt upon the moors,

Our Macbeth, remember'd the embers,

As I talked to those ghosts upon the floor,

Remember'd not once more,

Once upon a distinctly remembered bleak December,

Dies irae, dies illa.

Abyss.

This is the forest primeval.

Wait-- breathe, pause;

This-- this is Evangeline.

I assumed you knew; pitch-black, silence.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts beneath it--

Those hearts? Hit by a train. Try diamonds, whose cuts last far longer--

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?

Harken! here come those alabaster wraiths of Winter, to which the zephyrs say

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.

Dare become the abyss in which you wish to explore.

Violate.

You will have to kill;

There's none quite like it.

You can't say you're free

Then, to be selfish,

Obscene-- you know I

Couldn't, never once ever,

Say yes to those stars;

I must think-- consider--

How to truly shape

Synesthetic light?

How to: touch a light,

One only you can hear?

An answer: to hurt, violate beyond something

Perhaps to be held violet and rye.

Stars.

It's not about reaching for the stars,

It's not about becoming something more,

It's not about the silence.

It's about looking back upon memoirs,

It's about fighting the Erymanthian boar,

It's about keeping your balance,

Defending your asylum.

Stop-- listen.

Sometimes, it's better to be in the pitch black,

Note to self--

Don't let that suicidal cruelty overwhelm you.

Reach for stars you can't see--

Oh-- don't talk to me about a youthful love--

Let that acid strangle you alive,

Let the asphyxiation come.

Yet you can't see that white dove,

Yet you can't see that this is only a test drive,

You already have your unearned income--

Just because you can't see the stars doesn't mean they're not there.

Dark.

Day one dark,

Before long-- none, not one,

Left darkened,

Spirals down,

Keeping-- so much-- to ourselves

Feeling lost, as though by being in

Love, you're forced--

Coerced, into becoming a mental

Heretic;

(ordinary)

Human.

Screams.

Who to know: circumhorizontal arcs

Clouds race across the sky,

Brutally honest or cautiously lie?

Cage the wolf, free

The beast, kill the man, out in

Space, none matter

Across the surface of the

Earth-- screams of those

Lost, fallen, forgotten, with

None but wolves;

Normalize the abnormal, vary

"Truth," or the lack

Of a less than subjective

Appearance; of

Facts perverted towards a

Safety net of sorts,

Where delusion is our home,

Our palace, where

We can touch our comfort and

Lie; where stars can bleed

And colors can scream and shriek,

Little shrikes, little loves

Become smudged against a

Pitch-black, violet

Sky.

Silence.

The dream, the terrible, horrible dream,

A daydream, no less!

Prison break, run o'er stars to cover.

Become trochaic, kaleidoscopic

In your colors; become human

As each separate dying ember wrought ghosts upon the floor,

In every bleak December, in every light upon the moor.

Don't let captured stars escape, don't let dreams fly,

Unless you wish to soar with them.

Let your prose become your silence, your colors your noise,

Let the stars bleed for you, and most of all

Let your comfort bed your lies, apologize

Not for a saturnine jackal or mercurial viper,

But for your note to self.