these words flow from the heart,
though the story is as fictional as
any memory.

be wary;
for she who tells you
she can change the future
is a thief and a scoundrel,
a messenger of the devil,
but not a liar.

ask, and she may yet answer:
what use is prophecy to a dying
world?

it is not in the purview of fate
to abandon its children.
that duty falls to the gods
and to our selves,
those who would tell you
to say your prayers
and plug your ears
lest you hear of
the reckoning outside.


settling down on that
gentle blanket of ash,
eyr sweet song always
calling out to you,
that eternal temptation to
think of endings as peaceful.

but no.
one must heed the pastor’s cries.
there will be a slaughter at the
end of all things.
you have need to be prepared.

a tree uprooted, overturned, all-aching,
sickened woody flesh that rots for years,
exposed root telling of a hundred stories to come,
each a bit softer than the last

the inevitably of cessation makes it no less fearsome
and no less sweet

aside you, inside you,
the power of that unknowable dark
cannot be understated
and should never have been brought to bear

so the forest watches patiently,
waiting for the next of kin to arrive

the beetle looks over to the leaf and weeps,
begging for some small mercy,
not knowing its language is forgotten

the wolf that howls at the moon
is not also pawing at your heart
though this could not have always been true

visitor hours are over now
sleep peacefully
for these matters are beyond your concern

deep within the woods there sits a
circle of ash. an emptied pile of unsung
curses. a testament to woes and dreams
long withered. a funeral pyre for those
few forgiven. this land is avoided by all.
whispered about only in the most silent dark.
known as Forsaken.


elsewhere.
half buried in the dunes there
lies a nameless colossus.
a clockwork god with a
hollow chest. a heap of
rusted metal, long dead
and forgotten. on the day of its
birth it had wept. refused all
offering and praise. cursed
those who had dared to dream

of salvation. ripped out its heart
and crushed it in a fist. called itself
whole in its ending. proclaimed to the
heavens that this was a world
never meant for divinity.

elsewhere.
a fruit tree stands tall above
all others in the orchard. renowned
for its bounty. yet no new leaves
will sprout. branches are falling out
by the day. as if it had been
dead for years.

elsewhere.
a home erased.
a name not spoken.
a story unwritten.

Years ago,
an angel visited my home
Or maybe it was a ghost,
perhaps just a bogeyman

He came in through the window
late that night,
letting in a chill
as I lay in bed reading

I looked at him,
expectant,
and he said
Child,
do not be afraid.
Behold, for I have great news
that shall save you and you alone.


He need not have said the first bit,
for I have no fear of angels
or ghosts


I replied,
I do not think
that that is quite
how the quote goes

The angel grinned
leaned his head back
laughing discordantly
wiped a tear from his eye
chuckling as he
weeped with mirth
and joy
the smile never touching his eyes

Though to be fair
I didn’t check

He said,
I think
you and I
shall get along just fine


And so we did

            When I am gone
I am dreaming Of
A library
      Filled with Books filled with
            Bones
and bloody Ink
letters upon letters strung Together to make
peace               they Sing
        Dancing music to my ears upon my eyes
Etched into my soul
            and out again   When I am
    finished with them
Forgotten tears from forgotten
                             Memories
            times of fear
        Misery
                              rest
        All lost to the ages

A slate wiped clean and A
          Mirror that hasn’t worked
                  in years

coming back from
the brink of despair the flat
edge of a knife the edge
of mour body-face-form and
you remind umz that the
phlegm of mour soul
sticky and sour left umz
broken-hearted with a pulse
that beats against mour chest
til iz am buried neck deep
in pus and bones and sins
of the flesh but not
the body and iz can hear your
hot breath but not
your lies-iz lie
awake yet asleep sickness
coursing from mour mind
monochrome dreams to mono
tone days iz see your
face when iz spit
venom in the eye of
mour creator being divine
and dead on the ground,
forgotten.