Of Artists and Passion

She paints in blood and memories,Demanding of herself everything,As her soul is poured over the canvas. He sings his shattered arias,Music crafted in disharmony,His voice cracks to utter such perfection. She writes her poetry while dreaming,The words gifted from forgotten friends,Like a muted plea to be remembered.

Game Logic

It is our curse to rise again after we have fallen,To commit to the agony of reliving day after day,How many times have I died, only to wake once more?But giving up is an anathema -Aren't we trained to move forward,And grasp for the next reward? Endure. Struggle. Live.

A Prison of my Own Making

I stopped this morning, All the thinking.Gulping air with sightless eyes,The constant bell-ring in my ear,The stabbing knives in my mind,Slowly faded.In my thoughtless breath,I rode free from the flesh,Beyond the blood running hot,And the thousand-thousand thoughts,Coalescing into the mortar-mess,Mortarium,That cages my feverish consciousness.

Luna Wept

Luna wept to behold her visage,Upon the inner lakeshore of Skye,And on the precipice of the rocky crags,Her tears ran like vinegar light,Rivulets of her loneliness dissipating, Smelling of burnt sap and children's sighs,While I found myself growing old,Drowning in her long lost love.

From Skies to Concrete Walls

She embraced change as an unwilling participant, Nostalgia's enlightenment mingled with crimson breath, As florid blooms behind her eyes leaked, Cosmic insignificance trickling down her brainstem, She gasped, an inconsequence of time ever-flowing, Then slept in the arms of sweet nothing. ~0~0~0~ She embraced the change as a willing subject, Took medicine with practiced sips … Continue reading From Skies to Concrete Walls