I count all my hair, 
stinging with electricity, 
ozone on my sleeve. 
A peat bog with water waist deep, 
moss on down the halls. 
Bouncing a voice long gone, 
“How do we breathe?” 
Escaping as we speak. 

Beautiful words confine me, 
a misery of mystery. 
Restless at the seams. 
A prison so lost friends won’t find me. 
How does this compare? 
Another kind of exposure. 

Wisdom’s Fruits

Aimless through the black and white,
among the grainy tops of midnight.
Wander through clear cut lines 
of staunch lit dreams and windless vines. 
Crawl and stretch toward open whites, 
blue or hazel of open eyes. 
Crossing through emboldened text.
Reap and sow tears of crying minds. 
Black and white, 
back and forth; 
whose hope is it to read the signs? 
Among the fields stemming dreams of height,
while as to day, they fall to night. 
Within words so far away
only disbelief will fill my fright. 
Harvested here by those astray,
the tree of wisdom, from leaves that fell away. 


Where wild ones play.
In a jungle of laughing and longing.
Built over time
on overgrown mossy ground.
Filled with a soundtrack
of cackles in the dark. 
Strange and unrecognizable to them.
Though very much alone. 
Sounds to which 
they've kissed goodbye
all night long. 
Until trees fall and flowers wilt.
All noise fades. 
A cold, bare apartment
called home.
Never to see each other again.
So it feels.
Something she would call dramatic. 
To say the least.
Sometimes the most
better left unsaid. 

The Midnight Rose

A rose in the garden 
 grows ever sweeter. 

 Lovely white petals 

 soften a thorny demeanor. 

 Though twinkling between twilights 

its pale beauty casts gloom; 

 a baneful silk shadow 

 by light of the moon. 

 Safe in the small hours, 

 but deadly at dawn: 

 the buds draw in, 

 the thorns begin to yawn. 

 If stung in the light 

 there's no time to feel sick. 

 The petals glow red 

 as blood from the prick. 

 Forget your family, your life, and your friends. 

 Off to a new garden 

 you roam to make amends. 

 To his mistress, the moon, 

 the rose does take. 

 Another stranger - a sacrifice - 

for his mistake. 

 You won't wonder or think. 

 Your mind has gone. 

 As you lie and wait 

 for the last light has shone. 

 When daylight has faded; 

 now covered in dirt. 

 You twist and tangle 

 as stems with white flowers, 

 from your skin, 

begin to spurt. 

Excerpts from Morning View

"For once it was nice:
shedding myself of the most boring aspects of my life. 
Which were, realistically, the most exciting parts
in the lives of others...

Before, I placed all my perception of beauty into wonder,
into imagining great features in great lands,
great feats by great hands.
Now I know,
it is not those who wander that are lost,
but those who wonder endlessly of where they could go."