The Withering

Why must glass imagined by the wayward few draw borders over lives bleeding out...

No More, No Less

I know that if I just dig deeper, carve enough of myself away— a pound of feathers and a pound of flesh—when all is said and done I’ll find an end...

The sky above the poet grinned and a million words spilled out...

Shock and awe as reflections close in and we see the many-eyed watchers, the many voiced heralds of doom at the breaking dawn...

In this land of machines the Makers walk surrounded by the phosphorescent glow of progress...

I never wanted this for you...

For a few minutes at a time you can rest back here behind gray walls and a paper thin door...

The words all laid out on the table, magic spells and treasure maps scratched out by invisible hands...

Lost in valleys of the smoking hills, a highway runs with no beginning and no end...

Come witness these pagan horrors souls held together by threads in the hands of a puppet master wind...

The wind carries our voices away across bleak lands soaked with trails of our blood...

What once flowed as bacchanal wine, soaking into soil where seeds waited to sprout has spread to the edge of desert and evaporated...

Decay is the crumbling walls between what seems safe and what seems familiar...

Heroes have walked this broken path— shades of music lost to the wind, come near to the throne and lain upon the ancient stone flags...

She with the perfect eyes and pale moon gaze came to me robed in promises...