A Red Hyacinth.

And I fall before the red branches, frail, wholly upon the utter stone that reared none for blood-sake,
And I kneel before the laughter and its fever, and its pride,
From before the evening of the distant fire among the blackened ocean, a beige fog,
Which lured me alone,
I called out to you

I am from broken images from my mind.

I am from memory in which I grew from first
Muscle—to bone—to flesh,
I am from the canal in which I’ve risen
From dark-blue infinity,
Seeking only the first in which I could recall…
I am from life, I am from the harshest blow
Of sickles within the wind from the sap of the harrowed tree

Unquiet Light.

Originally posted on Lucy's Works and Co:
When the hand lays on sights, dead, That collapsed dust from earlier time, That acceded some time beyond the winds, lead With the lining, cried at first breath. Doth the rooms that…

A dream suspended from sanctuary.

The partition of light slides upon the red, pale rocks shielded by the cluster of streams, a fossilized hue of the starlight in the refusal of blustering dreams.
A mere smudge of waterlogged forbidden Arcadia—tasseling a present vanishing in exile a solemn midsummer darkness prowling the streets in your memory.

A Winter Sere.

And I will wake from frail calls, lonely, enkindled by the breeze.
I will wake in silent hope that glares its rays upon a sere trunk,
As gently a shadow passed through that made me say of this Podunk,
“Alone, brighter than the starlit partings, tides you a dream

Oh, Dream.

And I rest my hands on the twilit moorland on the river’s expanse as I plea
“For the love of God!” in a tunneling light, haunting laughter.

Valhalla. (Prose)

It is in the beige evening by the willows and a café restaurant with the golden leaves and their shards on the grounds, covered in a cleansed rain. It is in the illumination of shatters that broke beyond the pale sky that not only writhes among itself, but will be only among a frail sight like memory, a seed into the dead fruit of tree.

I’ll Remember.

As I touch the river that trembles upon my weak sunlit torrents upon a gentle lick of lilac,
And I shiver upon the pale wisteria of the eventide like a wounded deer,
For I wonder upon the dark lavender skies, and their cracked gentle weeping rivers
That glint upon the surface below the Acrylic golden trees, and their blossoming tormented thunders

Morning Snow. (Prose)

I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I go into the peaks of the world

Perfume Loring…. (Prose)

Perfume loring, turning, hedged to the twitching, to the crying moon like sutler, silk drowns muses flesh and bone, stitches on fatty quilts, wanting warmth, muttering, muttering through whispers, begged by praying hands,

I hate this place.

“You bring me the Sun and Moon…” By A Chief Among Sinners.

You bring me the Sun and Moon at your pale weary palms,
Your tilted wrists glinted with dew drops of sweat,
You hold the Sun, exerting faint balmy breaths of gold on your right hand,
And you grasp the pale white- lit rippling silver pool iris of the Moon on your left,
You took the glistening bronze celestial orbs from their faded folds of the silk threaded heavens

I’ll Keep. (Prose)

my torrent of blood flourishes like a blue weeping violet, rock-strewn to the near hill-side at midnight; I pardoned myself to the wall flowers as the wind vanishes above the chimneys with the grotesque sticky saps on the creaks of spotted ghosts