The Monologue

My back is turned. I cannot be imprisoned like some bird or dog. Goodbye is the horizon, a brave gaze turned downward on a misguided bond. The house is already crumbling. Let it fall.

These are precarious moments. We cannot  define them fully. We can only resist the urge  to reach out and hold onto time already passed.  It is holding smoke but not inhaling. To be a witness , one must only see something.  But seeing does not have to mean much. In the end,  there will never be clarity before action. The answers only come in moments lived. This shouldn’t be surprising. The knowing  is the finale. To know is to transform,  and thus clarity is an end. The natur

verb.  to never know the hard cold truth  of a sudden death, to not crash too soon before I catch my breath,  to stay as I am, mid-air and burning against the speed, to revel in blissful hunger and long to satisfy the need.

To fall is to be a dove  no longer. It is a sanction;  wings tarnished in soil.  Should he ever watch me  break my neck, he may never rest again. My body  twisted in his mind.               A raw reminder of love's                chaotic thorn, made to rip apart  in the name of desire.      Desire,  who has no face, and  no reason. A cold truth  disguised with a lie.       Desire is no light thing

The truth                    is that I’d like to be eaten,      swallowed whole      like a star in space.                        This is the great secret. The heart     of the matter.  My problem  is that I’m        bored.

There is more to my enemy than a weapon.  Remove the sword and they stand on shaky legs, heart  quickening against their sleeve. Only a coward leads  with defeat, hands already burying their head.  Beyond the veil, there is every deceit, every mask  cracked open. I’d like to see their faces, before the  casting. There is a lot to be said about who a man  chooses to be.

My Dear,               Ripened and rotted, you’ve lingered                                  long enough.  I struggle now to pluck the stench from the                       silk bedding, unwilling to admit                             that you are just no good.  It’s strange                            how our lust defines us,                          influences the abandonment                                         

I thought a shadow was a man and chased a promise spoken not. I wished into  an empty whole, an ocean left to waste  and drought. His heart, cast in a solemn hue,  black trenches where blood pumped to dry. A thick mask to hide a formless face, a small lie to mask a jaded high. His love, a mix of lust and doubt to warp the virgin light askew. He calls when he has disappeared within his mind left to brood. He cannot be left without a torch to shape a mired design, or else he lo

we all fall apart sometimes.  We all find ourselves stumbling        over our feet,  wings fluttering in             perfect humiliation.  That’s the part we must accept,          that every one of us must           fight the pavement.  That when you’re in the air             it's just you keeping                      yourself alive,  and every moment you                                        struggle  to catch the wind beneath you ...

The story of the world is not about people. It’s  about a planet that wanted die, but couldn’t for a very long time. Instead it ate garbage  and cried, heavily and for many days at a time.  The story of the world is not about people. It is about a life destroyed to be in service, despite  its limits, constant pain and no one to trust.  Hidden beneath the soil and flowers, overlooked  in the passing hours, a life that once was loved has been demolished…by people…by us.