Wanton Predilection

men dare never fathom
of the consequences wrought
in the wake of their ego’s reckless abandon

perhaps it is they know
if such truth were ever sought
they might not feel free to spread their seed at random

for theirs is such a burden
placed upon all womankind
as its sole regard is one based on passing whims

where women take the time
to consider each perspective
a man relates all things back to himself

every woman suffers
at the hand of man’s neglect
though the issues omnipresence e’er obscures

and here we are complacent
thinking this to be the norm
that no credence e’er is paid to our adjures

a man’s flagrant hypocrisy
so garish does it blare
to the point that we no longer recognize it

as women are subjected
to the scrutiny and ire
and are thus condemned to sentences of silence

with all that has been done
every man should build a shrine
at which every night he should beg for forgiveness

but sadly, people scoff
thinking this a vulgar thought
and it seems our species somehow lost its conscience

if man could look beyond
the defenses he has built
in the name of guarding insecurity

to address the endless wrath
he has lain upon his path
and accept his own responsibility

then we might stand a chance
in a world so full of doubt
on this precipice of humankind’s extinction

but all that i have seen
the male ego is as such
it’s beholden to its wanton predilection

Trust

i have spun this web
with words unsaid
upon a bed of sorrow

love ne’er ebbs
though in her stead
i dread to face
the wakeless morrow

broken vows of death’s departing
spoken with a silver tongue

cloaked in shards
from shattered hearts
enshrouded by the blackened sun

seconds fall at fevered pace
as life does from this land of lust

where all intentions turn to waste
and hurt is what we earn for trusting

Not Even Death

and here we are
yet living
on this eve of lost idyll

i am no more able
to feel your touch
than sorrowed skies retreat

the passing hours
grow ever darker
my lair has turned to dust
unsettled

roaming on this plane
alone
in search of any senseless reason

the more i look
the more i find
my mind is but a distant ruin

littered with the consequence
of time’s relentless ire

as truths unravel
by its hands
extending far beyond
the grave

where now
not even death
can stand to save us

Stoic Submission

even now
when thoughts of her
affronting love’s convention
have shuffled off
the consequence
befalling our mistake

do trails tell truth
of hours attending
context tread anew

disavowing fated remnants
lingering devoid of interest
bleeding web of understanding
weeping reaped
sown of her seed

in retroactive disillusion
memories become unraveled
like the sutures
faintly tethering us
at the tearless seam

so it seems
as days unfolding
shattered moulds
tinged with decay
hinging on pending perspectives
shifting lights shine
fears display

in the barren sands of ruin
truant cheeks
turned weak of will
baring thoughts i pray not bear

surrendered to stoic submission

The Sleepless Hour

drowning
in the darkness

silence
rests upon her lips

i long
to lift my leaden head

paralyzed
by thoughts of living

seconds drifting
in and out
from borrowed backgrounds

sitting in the circle
of regret
and rotting earth

thoughts of her
tormenting
pages shorn
to show an ending
spurned

still
her laughter echoes
through the frigid nights
of empty air

poisoned
by the voiceless peril
slithering through
meadows maddened

striking with a force
unfounded
never was her kiss
denied

but shallow whispers
lay awake
to court the
shadow’s song of ruin

through the forest
whence we stumbled forth
to greet the sleepless hour

Phantom Filament

i swallow pills
to feel like i exist
to stay my wrists
from bleeding out
and the nightshade
from my mouth
keep the hammer
from the primer
and the blade
untouched by blood
to prevent another haunting
at a wayward viaduct
so the reservoir stays pure
and the oven safe for food
let the rope tend to its duty
and the fires burn of wood
plastic bags were meant for sundries
and policemen to protect
heroin is too depressing
living death begets respect
it’s an irony most shameful
that to suffer is to earn
amid consequence most baleful
while the tastemaker’s face turns
as we follow in the footsteps
of a lifelong detriment
chanting “this is as good as it gets”
in a phantom filament

On a Saturday Morning

wake up
just to not
give a fuck

torn
from the only place
where i have
any worth

cursed to face
isolation
without hope
for solution

in this
hypnic delusion
of my cryptic submission

cigarette-lipped confusion
fuck
it’s hard
just to type shit

this
as good
as my life gets

i can’t quit
and yet, i did

with this pill
that i swallow

maybe death
will soon follow

on a saturday morning
and she’s not in my arms

there’s a draft
slowly drifting

into yesterday’s clothes
on an old
beat-up mattress

that some rat
made its home

i had bought
a humane trap

but i can’t bear
to tear him

from his only known dwelling
because i know the feeling

in the attic of heartache
it’s a static illusion

i can’t take
much more of this

not without
her love’s solace

on a saturday
so low

with my rodent companion
i refuse to abandon

unlike her
with her hand
down the pants
of a strange man

i guess we are all victims
of a silent affliction
where we scream
but no sound comes
only numbness
of conscience

bleeding truth
in her absence
in the attic of loss
left
on a saturday
mourning

with this rat
my only friend

Token of Her Heart’s Reflection

it’s hot outside
my heart is broken

yesterday
the news struck ground
after weeks
bound by tempest waters
ravaging resolve

her restraint
was faint at best
upon a whim’s behest
it crumbled

knowing well
the consequence
were she to sip
the spirits of chance

known to fail
my intuition
when it passed
i turned away

it was this moment
that would tear
our bond asunder

all the fire
that burned within me
now subdued
to hurt transmuted

as the bead of sweat
gathers to fall
in the periphery

from the black rimmed glasses
perched upon my face askew

also, does a tear lamenting
sent from realms
of shuttered pain

sweltering
as sorrow rings the sting
within this vacant stare

trained upon that shattered moment
shone to show her disregard

that she would allow
for all this

broken boundaries
words misspoken

token of her heart’s reflection

Fractured Hearts

fragile hearts
composed of fractured shards
of selenite
soon fall
from the silence
strewn long
throughout the night

some will dissipate
upon the kiss
of eclipsed atmosphere

while others infiltrate
the earth’s defenses
waiting to be found

is this power
within my pen
enough to stay
disappointment?

can these sunken eyes
sustain the curtain’s calling
dirt and all?

through these weary eyes
of stinging
i fail
to see the answer

no longer does water well
in the aqueduct
of quiescence

and gone
is any semblance
of the joy
that once we knew

having joined
the desperate masses
as envoys of muted morass

precious hours spent
relentlessly toiling
for elusive spoils

spanning the breadth
of a breathlessness
unbridled

’til our heads withered
wayward
down the trail
of idle absurdity

as frail
as the feathered waif
unhidden
on a leaf-barren poplar

sonically assailed
by a hail-tinged doppler shriek
with a tail that spanned the ages

The Aster’s Disk

how do you trust
emphatic assertations
claiming of a love so vital
so unknown
safe and new
all is spoken
as though feelings
never had been felt before
for a moment
nearly falling
to the call
of evermore
pre-assembled sentiments
relentlessly unleashed
lose the power
that was never there
a flower now bereft
of petals
left to tend
the aster’s disk