woman can exist
without man
in fact
she shall
ever thrive
however
man cannot exist
without woman
oh how
he endlessly writhes
However
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
Sharing Is Caring:
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
Sharing Is Caring:
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
Sharing Is Caring:
Profound Mechanism
what an oddly profound mechanism memory is
to be able to hear
the exact sound of someone’s voice
from years ago just by imagining it
to be able to vividly picture
a scene from a bygone era
whilst simultaneously looking
at the reality of the present moment
to summon the irreplicable symphony of flavors
rendezvousing upon the tongue
from a cherished dish
whose creator is no more
to behold the sweet scent
that once had found your senses
rapt in an erstwhile lover’s embrace
to revisit the feeling
of fleeting ideals
whence they fooled you into falling
for what you thought would be forever
foundations are ever shifting
in the light of newfound context
tragedy reshapes the stories
locked within our mind
knowing that the day will come
when all that we might stand to muster
swiftly turns to dust swept away
by a lonesome gust of wind
and this, the only truth
that we might ever trust in
it is for this very reason
we must live
within each moment
to foster our experience
as though it were untold
to leave a bold impression
that we one day might recall again
when all is lost as we retreat
into death shrouds of our own making
Sharing Is Caring:
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
Sharing Is Caring:
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
Sharing Is Caring:
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
Sharing Is Caring:
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
Sharing Is Caring:
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
Max, or Not 
You must be logged in to post a comment.