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Introspection

The rope around my neck was my reflection, Like a noose tied by ghostly hands, Cast back at me by each shard of the mirror. Shattering the glass hadn't hidden anything, Nor had it freed the mnemonic slaves within. Instead, countless eyes peered back at me, Stained with their own shades of recollection. Eyes that wept in their lament and blazed in their scorn, Dulled in their contrition and hollowed out in their hopelessness, Narrowed in judgement and withheld their pardon. These eyes were my own, And suspended there before them I wondered, Why it was that they hated me. It never occurred to me, As I swayed there in their company, That I hated them, too.

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An ode to Bladesmiths

This ode sing I to the Guillotine, 
On the block my neck to rest. 
This ode sing I to the blade, pristine, 
From body my head to wrest. 

This ode sing I to the Headsman, 
His heartless task Borne true. 
This ode sing I to the Scaffold, 
And it’s final somber view. 

This ode sing I to the Crimson Veil, 
Drawn down as I fall blind. 
This ode sing I to the Ghastly Pail, 
Its grizzly prize to find. 

This ode sing I for my heart's final beat, 
Its fervor yielding to repose. 
This ode sing I as my Veins deplete, 
Ichor blooming thereabout as the rose.
 
Why then Should I sing this ode, 
Not of my love, but of the blade? 
For the blade has done as its duty bade, 
Yet by my love was that duty conveyed. 
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Oizys

I had never felt so utterly empty,
And what a pity emptiness and numbness were not twins,
For still there rose in me that rancid overture,
Birthing a chorus of inadequacy that filled my hollow being.
Chanting in earnest of desire and its price,
Giving rise to a howling aria in praise of failure.
The wolves of worthlessness and fury dwelling therein,
Lusting for that sanguine objective their fangs might accomplish,
The coda of their mutually torn throats yielding no satiety,
As they retreat from their own pooling futility.
But war is their nature, and war would they wage again,
When the heart falters and tears flee captivity,
The gnashing of teeth shall be apotheosis.
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Momus

I did this to myself 
Just like each time before 
When I grew tired of the bitterness of shadows 
And lusted after the twinkling stars. 
When I ignored the shrieking reluctance within 
To reach instead for cold fire 
That, in passionate fugue, withers all; 
Like the vine I might have nurtured 
Now desiccated and bristling with thorns 
Coiling around my neck like a sobering noose 
Admonishing the failure of my purpose. 
My hands clawing at my chest in desperation 
Digging for the heart that might offer respite 
Finding only the shadows I thought abandoned 
And the ashes of all I had offered the flame. 
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A(X)iom

Even sweet words can be sharp,

Leaping from the many lips we can no longer differentiate,

Flaying the flesh and seeping into what lies beneath,

But not to worry, that skin never felt like home,

So, we peel it back in search of some charnel relic,

The ossified remains of promises made to ourselves,

The corpses of the Next times and Never agains,

Silenced forever by that alluring voice:

Those voices, now one and like heroin,

That carried the soul away euphoric,

Leading us to that familiar precipice,

Our heels rocking on its edge, 

The rocks beneath us howling in hunger,

As a whisper, like a breath, sends us reeling,

Plummeting toward the usual result,

Because the rocks were always the solution,

And we were the variable that failed to change.

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Anesthesia

Were I to allow myself again to love, 

What then might my heart suffer? 

Wed to numbness by cruel devices, 

It's dagger whispering at my throat, 

Glinting in the cold starlight of my mind, 

Promising to sever me from pain. 

My kiss won’t leave a scar 

Nor will my touch abandon 

Breathed that Spector into my flesh, 

Its venom coating my consciousness, 

A cloying, fetid honey that feigned disabuse, 

Whilst handing me is masque. 

And I, withering behind that porcelain, 

Sequestered from the virtue of hurt, 

Knew only those savorless feelings, 

Unseasoned, uncalloused, and unnurtured,  

That kept my parched lip from asking, 

“Whence cometh love?”  

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