Doctor,

look down my endless throat. It wants light but how unnatural it would be to shine one on it. Deep down dark bile bubbles, threatening to surface.

In my throat there is tension and torture and swollen glands. At the bottom there is a frustrated heart. It is self-aware and stronger now. But it has filled the peaceful void.

My body has experienced life's natural realities and unnatural abuses. I have treated it to smoky extravagances and burning ravages. And I hope that one day it will forgive me for excess.

Already a green moss flourishes on once barren surfaces. Life grows where sterility provoked death. I see new promises sprout anew.

My prognosis is positive; what is yours, doctor?

Heavy Shoes

Heavy shoes make heavy prints,
Weighing down the wearers,
Tiring our legs.

We cannot lift our feet,
To travel the destined path.

We remain rooted,
As the seasons change.

Spring-Summer-Fall-Winter.
Our heavy shoes are holding us in place.

Fragile Melody

It is a fragile melody that walks nervously, barefoot on the loose sand, whose balance is at stake. Fragile is its humanity, fragile is its wit. It is fragile in its authentic composure. The melody must be out-poured or it breaks with purpose and repeats itself.

It is a fragile melody that takes residence in the pit of sensitive stomachs. It gnaws at the liner as anxiety hatches. It is our fragile fingers that twitch unconsciously, tap-tapping on oak tables in faceless libraries. We are melodious in the most silent spots.

It is a fragile melody that smiles sadly on quiet evenings, when the world is at rest and countries' flags lay limp. They are motionless symbols that speak to meditative hearts. For the trained organ can detect fragility's subtle sounds.

It is a fragile melody that increases mysteriously as I yearn toward dizzy heights--toward dizzy heights where concerns are dead, where harmony's wispy deity dances daintily. Intricate designs unravel the louder it grows. I can feel the room sway when my fragile head is given wings.

It is a fragile melody's mystique that fascinates poets. Inspiration's auditory illuminations arise from its genius.

It is a fragile melody that plays for the faithful deceased. It will play for me when I'm rolling toward my grave. It will play for my loved ones when I lay in meaningful silence. But will there be anyone fragile enough to stop and listen; to hear its song in a world that has grown thick?

Untitled

The storm flew through the isolated town. It was shockingly destructive, the more so because it was unexpected. It blasted buildings, uprooted trees, wrecked cars.

Broken glass shattered to the pavement and was camouflaged with the torrents of hail that buffeted the little world.

The victims had never seen such violence. Theirs was a life of dull peace. Routine's colorless comfort had always been king. Entropy was unheard of. Mother nature obviously took offense to this.

The storm was a wild frenzy. It frowned darkly from the heavens with black, glowering brows. One could feel its horrible anguish lift the neck's tiny hairs. An unsettling presence shrouded the town.

God had come home.

Devils Never Die

The aging mist is heavy on my shoulders. How old I feel when I meet my past's ferocious gaze. I see error and loss when I look into its eyes. There are so many strange confusions lurking in fatigue's misleading silence. They crop up at the edge of reason. They lurk with guilt and accusation.

How long does contentment last when it spawns from suffering? Pain's memory fades along with the thankful appreciation that arises from its absence. But an arrogance is often born as a result of time. It then grows and supplants humility. This is unhealthy. I must keep my arrogance in check. I have already fallen from hubris' grace.

Life's pains must be revived each day in order to ensure that mistakes are not relived. I must inject their memories into my heart when I feel invincible. Human weakness must never be forgotten, buried, or ignored. And so I rub my wounds to keep them fresh.

Because life's devils never die. They only wait and slumber. They are cunning, baffling, powerful. And if you turn out the lights they'll stab you in the dark.

The Ill Bliss

The evil thrill fluttered my heart,
And then coursed through my veins,
A demonic happiness inflated my lungs,
And my surprised chest heaved.

The wonderful devil was here,
And in bountiful force,
Forgotten by me,
But now dreadfully found.

He was here to drown the evening,
To black out tomorrow,
To thrust away humanity,
With burning banishment.

It was an ill bliss,
That fettered my head,
That distorted my soul,
That broke me within.

And I lay there,
In shards,

And the tears,

T
h
e
y

J
u
s
t

F
e
l
l

Guard Against the Brick

The collective and desperate desire,
Of the commonwealth.

The symbiotic attachment of the mass,
As it cleaves to an ideal.

They reverberate around the room,
Unseen but felt.

The self-hypnosis of spiritualism,
Is absorbed by our willing minds.

We wish for normality,
But must deal with disease.

I believe in fellowship.
I believe in goodwill.
I believe in faith.

I believe in a stranger's heartbeat,
Felt in the hollows of my palm,
As we clasp hands in union.

They are the products of a shared hope,
And create the magic,
That we need,
To combat a terrible evil.

My power grows,
With each passing day.

My sanity is strengthened,
With each passing day.

But my resolve remains,
A stained window,
That must be guarded,
Against the brick.

It Will Get Better

It will get better,
My heart told my soul,
As it crackled and withered,
And bled salty tears.

It will get better,
The words ruefully rang,
As the ground heaved,
And my knees wilted.

It will get better,
The asphault croaked,
As I saw stars,
And felt poison.

It will get better,
My insane throat screeched,
With a desperate hope.

It will get better,
The words echoed,
In the dark corners,
Of the cliche room.

It will get better,
My organs moaned,
As they blubbered,
And sobbed.

And the slow days passed,
And the dark haze lifted,
And then hell died,
Giving way to peace.