Unclothed Essence


A Villanelle

Divisions of our wavelengths unaligned,

Like water ripples cutting out repose,

Do beat as wind against the boy’s dear shrine.

With dirty feet and haggard eyes benign

This boy might weep at wanton instant’s prose,

Divisions of our wavelengths unaligned.

The sun declines to stay, the boy supine

As smoothest rocks do skip the water’s nose,

And beat as wind against the boy’s dear shrine.

The horned owl hoots a greeting whine,

Yet boy’s engrossment never does transpose;

Divisions of our wavelengths unaligned

Like koi’s eternal whorl in lilies’ twine,

The deathgrip on his chest to thwart soul’s throes

That beat as wind against this boy’s dear shrine.

Inaudible the whispers self-confined–

The shiv’ring little boy alone opposed

Divisions of their wavelengths unaligned

To break their winds against this boy’s dear shrine.


The King’s Game

Breaking, breaking

A pawn of the kings’s game, a move of sacrifice

The thrusting of a knife

The king is dead


Am I anything?

What does being murdered teach a soul?

What does being a pawn with the knife teach a soul?

What does being the queen who gave the order feel like?


Slay me, but spare my heart, for it is the only thing I possess of any value


Choose the knife carefully, choose one that will hurt the most

Choose the old scar, where the wound within still sours from its culmination ages ago

Fill your heart with hate


The king is your pawn, just another pawn on the frontline

By the glasses you wear

Why does he smile though he bleeds from your cut?

Why does he, though he is being crucified and knows who the betrayer is, not hate you with everything in him?


The king’s game is yours,

The king is your pawn,

But God counts them all,

God knows them by name,

God knows all of their ways

God knows their hearts, and their sufferings, and their desires, and their weaknesses


God watches every step they take, for to him they are more valuable than the king and all his riches,

For not even the king stands higher in His eyes

For the king’s value is stripped to its true amount: he is in tattered rags, filthy, and dirtier than those who were his pawns

He bows his head low because he knows he is no better, and he bows deeper than the pawns because he is the lowliest pawn of them all


Yet not the queen of the games shall stand tall, no

The queen who does not bow shall be cut in half

All should beware the God of the king’s game.

Faraway Daydreams 

Image credit: http://juliadavis.deviantart.com/art/Lady-Grey-87548521

Sapphire essence ripples in respite
With ashen puffs of ivory afloat
In ruminatiom of the pond’s birthright.
Its skin, the canvas, slick with thoughts devout
To mirror’s eyes elated; itchy throat.
The oily figure pale with pleasant cheeks
And smile of glist’ning sustenance and note
Of voice’s deep embrace. A purloined peek
Inside this water’s surface tension, crazed but meek.

Broken Hip

Someone turned off the moon. The sons of the universe glitter amidst the ether, though their light is too far away to sustain me and their ears too faint to hear my objections. On this night of the dead, not even the crickets rise to offer a song of comfort, nor the owl his waking hoot. No, for now blindness is my treasured companion, and silence, my cold-blooded yet dedicated lover. The trail ahead of me has vanished, and behind me lies a cliff of several hundred feet, a lone bat passing beneath its mighty stature and chipping an echo into the open abyss. The air here suffocates as a cord pulled tight around the neck.

It’s the claustrophobia, however, that crushes me between its beak, for there is no escape from here, no path to take, no step to be had, no comfort to be gained. All that here exists is me, and no one else. Yet I am more familiar with this scene than I care to admit. It is a cold-blooded real-time replay of a majority percentage of my past. I should host an award ceremony to cherish and congratulate all the faithful individuals who have contributed to its glorious existence, knowing that they can never undo the foundational truths and occurences, horrible as they may be, which have already been laid and built upon.

I had hoped to drown this part of me so that I never had to sit in this place again, but apparently there is no escaping the inevitable. It is here, and I am here, and we are dating eachother again against all of my wishes. I am a significantly-sized tree with far too many summers under my belt to expect a repair of any damage which was inflicted long ago, injuries that healed without being set properly or burns which pressed so deep that fixing them is impossible.

Hi, how are you? It’s been a long time since we’ve last talked. Oh, not long enough, that’s for sure. What was that? You would like to rule over my life again? Sure, here’s all the keys. Not like I can stop you, anyway!

Sure, let’s be friends again for a long time, just like last time. Let’s be besties. No. You can rule over it all, no questions asked. You did it like that last time, too, remember? No, I’m sure I don’t care! Why would I care that you want to murder my soul all over again? No one would care about that!

Let’s veer to the left for a moment.

Imagine being thrown into a garbage can over and over again, for years and years. Eventually, a person who continues to be tossed into the garbage begins to believe that perhaps he or she is supposed to belong there. Soon, you start to question why you are not there right now, why you even climbed out of it, since that’s where you belong in the first place. You forgot that you had ever belonged anywhere else. Then you start tossing your own self in without any outward stimuli being necessary, although at any one moment there are a thousand namable entities or reasons which were more more than willing to offer a reason.

Now imagine being ignored for years and years, over and over again, despite feeble efforts to change oneself among a sea of people who couldn’t have cared less about one stupid kid’s problems. Soon, a person begins to reason that his or her self, not others, is the real culprit behind the long, lonely walks on the beach and the dark, quiet, loveless nights of winter, most of which end in the complete loss of caring about one’s situation and the complete loss of the desire and perceived ability to change it. Imagine a situation which has been for many years hopeless, impotent and unyielding in the face of screams of rage, fits of sadness and bouts of unimaginable depression that lasted long into adulthood. Yes, that would probably result in an unfixable, long-term fuck-up in the system where the walls are weaker, the support beams compromised and the firewall can’t seem to update fast enough, where no amount of begging and pleading can fix the irreparably torn segment of soul and no amount of tears can stop the fit when it starts. But it still works sometimes, so maybe it’s not so bad?

Yeah, fuck you.

I believe in overcoming one’s past, but some things can never be fixed and last forever. So, let’s just keep on carrying the weight of the world and pretend it’s not there, since that is the most sensible thing to do.

Letter from an Ancient Tome pt.2

​If it’s not the polarity of your presence that cuts into my chest as a lightsaber to hanging meat in cold storage, it’s the phantom emptiness of your absence that tickles my soul with a sort of famine groan. 

I must at these times unmantle myself from this incapacitation, keep my soul from powering it up, for you are none the wiser if I suffer than if I am well, and I am the sole loser of this entire game.

Yet you are far more lost than I. Adrift in your own world, you frolic without care. The ground is littered with your childish drawings, colorful and creative, yet balled up and tossed away in just the same way as valueless objects are discarded into the trash by litter-conscious park goers. 
Yet yours must be even more worthless, for they are tossed about the way children toss their impulsive mess of toys and play objects and scatter them throughout the house according to the whims of their sea’s waves.

I hide what I hold in my hands from everyone. What I hold is coveted and sought after by nearly everyone the world over. Humans have murdered and killed to possess it, all without gaining anything. What I possess I hold as one of the few who will ever get to touch it–it is a stone from the heavens which can never be destroyed. It may be the most valuable thing in all the earth.

And here I am, stupid man that I am, waiting to offer you a piece of it, and there you are, stupid girl, not even understanding that such a thing exists or that you live in an emotional refuse landfill and possess not the tiniest, least significant object of value.

You want the world? I cannot bewitch you with the wealth of the world as many others can, for I have not silver or gold, but I would give it to you in my own way–my portion of assets the world or God has granted to me. Perhaps it will be enough for you. 

Perhaps you can gain what is coveted by all instead of spending your life searching for what will never satisfy and what can never be arrived upon, and what, once found, gains you nothing in the end of all things, since the dreams and idealisms of youth are indescribable vanities and produce nothing but disappointment and hopelessness.

There are other dreams and other idealisms, however, which possess the quality of eternity, and they, as the best of all art, do not fade or lose their luster through the ages. Indeed, they are ageless and unshakeable; they prove the existence of an enlightenment granted to humanity as if by another universe–one that scoffs at the limits of our own–entirely.

Perhaps I spit into the wind; perhaps my last tree curses me for my idealistic stupidity, counting the days until our inevitable death. For if we fail, if I fail, we will die. We could not possibly continue to exist with beating hearts, but only in a cold casket and a heap of ashes. 
But the invaluable stone is not activated through what is tangible and believable. It comes alive only at the beckoning of dreams, at the whims of a power able to transform from the earth what ought never to have been possible. It hopes in only what is absurd, inconceivable, unachievable. It never gives up, as if it were a law of the universe simply obeying itself.

I am but obeying a law of the universe, and I can no more halt it than I could halt the waterfall from following gravity or the cosmic radiation from bursting out of a hypernova. If I fail, I die, for there is no in-between, no netherworld where even the slightest compromise is possible.

Will you ever accrue the sagacity of this light, or will you walk invariably in the darkness and cause me to do the same, to my own expiration? I suppose we shall see.

​Letter from an Ancient Tome pt.1

It is my desire to sniff you out from whatever hole you hide in and lure you out into the open. Your destruction is the only thing on my mind.

The daydream of my soul: a wide field, quiet as a pine tree, with a single oak, old as Abraham, set in its eye like a diamond in an ornate silver ring. You sit beneath that sleeping treant, and to surround you is a fresh autumn afternoon laid to rest in the casket of night. Soft and cool whispers of the earth tickle the leaves above you and fondle your long, dark brown hair as the moon sneaks out from between two low-hanging clouds.

It is in that place that I appear without warning, my weapon drawn and your end assured. A glimpse of recognition tears across your grimace, the fear of shock not able to give way to the next logical emotion, trust, because of the swiftness of my movements. Yes, you would move to trust me and not fear me because you do not know me. You do not have any idea who I am or what I do. You don’t know who I am in the least.

You are not fortunate enough to have the time to feel or contemplate your misplaced trust; you do not have time to scream at my attack; you do not have the time to feel regret for not being able to stop it, or anger for my betrayal, or curiosity as to who I really am.

I unleash an overhead swing, a single stroke aimed at the top of your unguarded and reposed face, your porcelain-like smooth skin and brown marble eyes echoing the beauty of the forest gods in every way, including the subtle glow that is eternity’s kiss of promise.

The next moment, I feel the resistance of your brain matter and skull against my sword’s sharpened edge, the trembling of my wrists as I try and fail to wretch the sword free from your lifeless, glaring head, the hot, sticky blood climbing down the double-edged blade and narrow hilt and dropping into my arms.

Do you know who I am now?

Yet, in reality, we have passed the fall, and the heart of winter’s careless cackle screams its approach on the morrow’s horizon. Yet, in reality, there you are, careless as ever, longing for the winter to return, not knowing what that means to anyone else around you–especially me, of all people. 

Yes, you long for the winter, and you spare not the faintest embers of kindling to the poor of soul and spirit. You have killed the rest of my forest so that there is but one tree remaining, and surely this year you shall destroy that last one, and then I, spirit of the forest, shall be no more, all for the sake of this wood you must burn. And of this burning warmth of fire that you create for your own satisfaction, you offer me not the most insubstantial portion with which to warm but the soles of my feet.

Therefore, am I not the bigger fool for allowing you, selfish human, to cut down my woof without retribution, even without the tiniest rebuke?

Still, rather I perish as my particular brand of fool than live on while being yours. There is yet a tiny, insignificant twinkle of hope which from time to time surfaces like a mullet in a river, jumping above the water for no other purpose than nature’s sudden demand. 
Perhaps this reason is the only reason in existence why you still breathe, live, and otherwise inhabit the space of my forest, which you have cut down for your own personal gain and at great cost to me, labeling yourself as a dissident against my people and against nearly everything I am, yet owning it and doing whatever you please with it as if it actually were all your own.