From the mountain’s base he gazed 
Upwards towards the summit,
A foreshadow of the climb to follow. 
He began to scale the silver rock—
The slithering trail which winded
Towards the heavens. He believed
He would be forgiven at the apex,
So he hastened his step and pulled
His lithe form forward evermore. 
His lunges burned, embers scorched
His throat and he could not bellow
The cry which needed to be bellowed. 
He dragged his body onto the peak,
And picked thorns out of his flesh.
The respite—salvation—he sought
Evaded him as it had for decades. 
He was awed by the beauty around
Him that he could sense but not see—
He was blind, buried by the ideology 
That each man is only given one chance…
One chance for happiness,
One chance for peace of mind,
One chance for love.
The façade he fabricated lingered,
To protect the delicate flesh within him. 
From the stillness of the mountain,
He took a boundless breath to refill
Lungs, which had been deflated.
The scene before him blended 
Into the backdrop, but the story
He wrote remained etched within
The weathered rock. 


The moment lingered as laughter and mirrored
The pleasant sensation of fingertips grazing
Against human flesh with off-timed affection.
Time was poised as an enemy of happiness,
As separation grew inevitable and expected.
Secret desires remained fixated beneath
A feathery comforter with fingers intertwined.
The lust became all-consuming, reality was rattled
And feelings were left to be fought,
With unpleasant fervor and want-to-bes.
Held in passion, each second was precious
For two people precariously evading separation—
Another second and they would be parted,
Knowing memories would soon grow hazy,
The curse of their myriad of mistiming.
The faces faded by morning, and were replaced
By a consciousness curious for the methodology

Of finding the remedy for another departing.


It is skittish and clumsy—in denial
And dishonest.  It is forgetful
And scattered, an amazement and terror.
It is beguiled by its own being,
And is hoping and wishing—it is never
Sleeping, feeling, or heeding to logical thoughts;
It is a sense of escaping, and pondering passion.
It is always devising, plotting, and 
Wishing—waiting and weaving ideas,
All the while never wavering.
It is needless, and nonsensical—ridiculous,
And tiresome—cumbersome and curious,
But is still believed to be worth the trouble.
It is desirous and dreamy—it is constant,
And tenacious—tantalizing, and timeless;
It is both shy and audacious,
Wry and respectful. It is a succubus 
And saint—both war and peace—
Nirvana, a nazi—orderly and chaotic,
Both vanilla and chocolate.
It is abstract and constrained, 
Both original and plain.
It is prodigious and mini,
A scandalous imp and seraph—
Both forgotten and favoured,
Frivolous and hoarded.
It is delicate and evasive
But still,  we want it.

Of My Mind

I have watched her leave, and felt my body
Ache with an overcoming pain I had never
Experienced prior—An anguish that weakened
My desire to live, and extinguished my spirit. 
And now I am the one who leaves—a man
Who is as foolish as he has ever been. 
And again my body aches—the concept
Of reality is relinquished. I fade to nothingness,
Marked with a sickness love may not mend—
Trapped within fervent thoughts that never
Tend to diminish, for as long as my mind exists.


The brevity of our encounter is perturbing still,
As I fabricate a gaze I will never meet.
Forever you survive—live life—without a name,
As the woman carried away by summer winds.
You exist without a face, a façade of adulation,
Whom I thought at first ordinary—
But now I believe as beautiful.
We share nothing, but a ridiculous conundrum
And a sonnet, which was given in haste,
In hope of one day rejoining in ardour
And escaping the reality of the lives we live.
Our Tongues floundered blind circumstance
As we cantered in silence—the mystery
Of your name ensnaring me all the while.
Now you are a caricature, of a comely nature,
Whose coy smile will always be cherished.
She has neither a name nor face I remember,

But my heart is bestilled, by her quiet grace.

Into the Woods

I run away, hoping the evil within me dies,
To my death I scurry, deep within the trees.
Within the lush undergrowths my body lies,
My life drains, as my physical form sighs. 
I leave behind a bitter trail of blood and toils—
As the people rejoice on tear soaked soils.
I am the beast who has gone off to die,
With a dulled ache and blood that boils.
For my only hope is that within the shade
Love will find me when my debt is paid.
I have fallen victim to a moral absence—
I lie in the brambles of the mess I’ve made.
I am dying, and hoping I soon awaken—
I amble into the woods, somewhat shaken,
While the wounds within me fester—
A gift, in exchange for all I’ve taken.


To myself, my heart is hidden—I tell lies
From which there is no opposition,
It's just me, and I am left in cognition,
Torturing myself with hypotheticals.
I cannot live one more night in the same
State of mind—I must escape—I must run
Away from myself—cast away the colourless
Skin, the mark of my distention. Is this death?
Is this heaven? Is this hell?
I am falling deeper within the spell.
I dive into distraction like a dying man—
Seeking relief from myself... The years...
The anguish... The process of ageing.
Each breath is poison, a noxious process
Of devious desire—I lament and languish,
The lingering longing that creates
Sullen behaviour and endless ensnarement.
I lie awake—my skin crawls—I'm not safe
Within my head—hapless happenings,
That steal the best of me. I am broken.
I am dubious of belonging. I am defeated.
The levity is laced with lies—my eyes—
See the world as a loving place, but,
Although reality may be freeing,
I chose to live a life of delusion.

I Live a lie.