If writing
Is emotion
Reading poetry's
A mirror.

…And outside
The shuttered windows
Rose a golden dawn.

"Come with me,
You can fly!"
The enigmatic stranger said.
Naive we took his hand —
Not knowing we would
Never land.

None but the guilty
Fear God's wrath
When lightning paints
The night's sky
White.

Those taught to fear
Will gladly trade
Liberty and truth
For the
Illusion of security.

Fidelity, commitment—
The laws of attraction
Do not care.

Don’t speak to me
Words of devotion
Not originating
In the heart.

Expectation murders
What might be —
Birthing
Bleak reality.

Even incapable to bear it,
This weight is mine —
I will not share it.

Beauty like
A setting sun,
Forged from
Ash and fire.
Her burning heart —
Almost spent,
Never to be won again.

All remains
As it's ever been —
Only the labels changed.

Come closer —
Let me be
Your pillow.

Do not be misled.
There are
Rules.
Winners.
Losers —
It's a game.

Although life is a
Predictable hell
Without reprieve,
It is still
The unknown
I fear most.

Claim the smallest reasons,
Celebrate each tiny step —
The next might never come
Or take forever.

Scratch as I may,
The itch
Remains.

Only the naive think
That in the land of plenty
Everything is positive.

Balancing
Atop unstable bridges,
Fearing the fall,
We raise our voices,
Drowning out the roar —
Deafening dark waters
Raging far below.

We indulge,
Fully aware the cost
In blissful moments
Of ecstacy
To numb the pain —
If only temporary.

Coveted dreams
Unreachable
Consume us.