This curse whips my temperament like an irate horse-rider with bloody spurs.

Untitled

The clean sand that rides the wind's whims drains down the hourglass's restrained neck. Its every particle is ambivalent, a heterogeneity that rules the desert, that mirrors the human race's collective complexity. The sand can sting the eyes or massage the feet. It is a neutral comrade. Circumstance alone determines its stance.

Did You Catch the Sun?

Did you catch the sun's rivulets streaking through the window and setting the carpet ablaze?

Its golden locks are fluffed in gorgeous disarray. They are draped across the globe like a soft, irradiating blanket, scorching those who are hopelessly enamored and caressing those who have been burned by love before but who have since gained the dousing pail of self-respect.

Did you catch the sun's rivulets streaking through the window and grabbing my soul with its fiery fingers?

Its accurate shafts cleave through flesh with no regard for convenience or comfort. The divine possession cannot be exorcised or willed. It rules on a whim; it arrives and departs at its own pleasure.

Did you catch the sun's rivulets streaking through the window and bringing laughter in its rippling wake?

The day is at its zenith; my smile is at its height. But as the sun starts to sink; by face begins to fall.

Even a Devil

Even a devil sleeps.
It slumbers spread-eagle on the ground.
Its tail is lax and curled,
Its red body heaves with ease,
And its pitchfork lays unbidden.

The devil's face is slack,
The lines of hate are less defined,
The hellish eyes are lidded,
And no remorse mars its figure.

Even a devil knows peace in sleep.
Even a nightmare is preferable,
To the tortures of wakefulness.

A night of horror can still bring rest.
Even a devil is spared insomnia's hell.

The Sea of Snot

Drowning in a sea of snot, the breath of life is tainted by its aqueous scent. The pool is clear, but slow and slimy. It rises past my eyeballs, and my mind begins to panic as my lungs begin to starve.

My mouth is agape like a fish out of water, vainly inhaling in panic. The sea widens in response, raging. The salty liquid slushes all around me, and my vision is blurred with slime.

I hold my breath and hope tomorrow's sun dries the flood and drains the fluid. I pray for a formidable drought. I want to feel the sea's floor break and bend like beef jerky.

Untitled

He raises his eyes to heaven in the chill evening. His identity hovers about his shell like a fog as he moves. What grand heights the day has wrung! Levitating now in the esoteric plane, his mind is buoyed by the force of art. It presently runs at full force but, like any fuel, it is slowly being consumed by well-oiled engines.

The descent is imminent.
Its proximity is feared.

We the Melancholy

We the melancholy,
Are restless and silent.
There is a rainy haze in every reflection.

We the melancholy,
Are tired and cold.
The shivers of age creep up our spines.

We the melancholy,
Lack stimulation.
An awful silence hums in our ears.

We the melancholy,
Are intelligent and deprived.
No challenges rise to meet us.

We the melancholy,
Know its transience,
And wait with forceful patience.

For we wish it to pass,
With an incomplete urge.

The Internal Weight

The internal weight grows heavy, but does not disturb my peace. I live in willful prostration before life's cares. My resignation is that of the elderly. It is a peaceful contentment tainted with regretful desires. It is a familiar dissatisfaction with reality.

The world's colors are brilliant, but I cannot see them. They shimmer and gleam at the corner of my eyes but vanish when I turn my head. All that is before me is a deceptive gray glass. It separates me from the rainbow. It is impervious to my fists.

My claw marks strangely streak across society's surface. The noise of their passage screamed in the lonely cave, deafening in intensity. There is desperation beneath my fingernails, which are cracked by my shifting moods. The desire for euphoric oblivion drives my cloudy ambition.

The internal weight drags like an anchor, and my ship struggles to move. I must wait for the weather to change, for moods to pass before I can sail on. I must bail my boat and suffer the sun before the evening brings peace and beauty to the sensual seas.

Then will I breathe,
Spiritually.