Lady of the Night


moon-like-face

Her face is frost etched glass
floating in the blue-black winds of the night;
She illuminates footsteps hushed
on decayed and dampened leaves,
and grieves for freshly planted souls
who have turned from the light of day.

Her midnight corset is tightly laced
by the dazzling tails of falling stars,
and she moves in phases
with the hushed and tempered grace of a
childless empress wandering forlornly
through the cold shadows of winter’s garden.

She seduces the wolf and the poet with
equal ambivalence, each of whom
compose for her dream-soaked arias
and haunting sonnets that speak of
promises which will not be kept.

She mourns her powdered reflection
as it ripples across frozen lakes, and
hides behind silver-lined clouds when
she can no longer bear the loneliness
of her shadowy journey across granite
mountaintops and sleeping meadows.

At last, in the cool, grey light of morning,
as the sun softly caresses her porcelain
cheek with warm fingers of breaking light,
she sighs but once, then slowly fades into
the rose colored blush of a new day.

Lost and Found


My heart is loosely stitched
with frayed, crimson-soaked threads
binding my existence to abnormal beats.
I am lost and imprisoned in an iron-forged cage
of despair, mercilessly hammered
on this unforgiving anvil we call life.

Even from childhood, I would see shadows
where others saw light; and I grew up
nursing on the dark teat of depression.
I sang sad songs, embracing my melancholia
with insanity’s unrelenting grip.
The laughter and merriment of others
cut through me like poisoned shards of glass,
and I withdrew further and further into the
cold, foggy corners that framed my world.

But I was not alone.

As a young man, I found my grotesque reflection
resonating in the erstwhile lies of ‘les poètes maudits’;
Rimbaud, Verlaine, Baudelaire, and Mallarmé!
Like a chorus of fallen angels, they sung to me
the blackened verses of lost love, alcohol abuse,
insanity, crime, and violence!

Their acid-laced stanzas felt warm and inviting.
Their words fit me like burial shroud
clinging to my defeat.
In them, I lost my refuge, my compassion,
my raison d’être! Because of them, I stepped closer
to the plunging abyss of despair…

Amber Waves of Pain


I made my bed on an ocean of glass shards
floating upon the undulating waves of incomprehension;
bourbon-soaked dreams sliced open and bleeding life’s meaning,
though it really depends on how hard you punch the veil of reflection.

I fell face first into a wall of glass.
Left with scars beneath my skin, jagged slices of nothingness
to rub my blood stained fingers over in that pain-filled comfort
where drunkenness sometimes seems like a good idea.

There always comes a point where I think I can stumble along,
the darkness isn’t so dark, the demons aren’t so scary, right?
It’s time to get off the merry-go-round
someone spliced to a rollercoaster,
only I forgot to notice ‘cause I was too busy going ‘round in circles.

It’s like breathing in asbestos that’s slicing through my lungs so hard
I can’t breathe, can’t think, and can’t be!
Pain has never felt as tangible as right now;
I’d do anything to make it stop,
anything to go back and find fermented heaven again.

But it keeps hitting like seven years bad luck
with perpetually bloody knuckles.
While I deliberately forget about the glass shards
imbedding themselves in and under my skin
until I’m at risk of bleeding to death, more glass than human.