There is calm.

There’s calm to be found in the predawn hours,
in the still silence of a world still sleeping.
When the quiet settles into the foundations and even the cracks seem to fill with it, seeping out onto the floor.
Valium laced thoughts tumble in slow motion,
offering rest, relief, redemption.

An invitation for submission,
an overture made in vain.
Sedation has no hold in the face of sedition.

There’s a buzzing under my skin that tells me to run,
to fight,
to throw myself into the abyss to see if
Gods and monsters look the same in the dark.

(They do.)

Continue reading There is calm.

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“Picture Perfect” – Said The Liar To The Mime

I’ve always felt wrong, like a 1000 word puzzle smashed together by a careless three year old. Pieces jammed in out of place and out of shape, the picture a mutated attempt at what’s on the box, with all the symmetry of Picasso.

The image on my metaphorical box is pretty and well ordered, my pieces are not. I’ve always felt like the small child responsible for my creation got angry and tired halfway through and tossed everything up in the air to let the pieces fall where they may.

Leaving me unfinished and full of holes.

Continue reading “Picture Perfect” – Said The Liar To The Mime

The Midnight Hours. II.

The midnight hours call to me.
Whispers heavy with the seductive weight of promise.
They sink claws into my spine and pull,
taunting, insistent, magnetic.
Luring me in with the indomitable thrill of the hunt.
Beckoning inexorable and enticing.
My heart beating the tattoo of war drums,
a primal homage to the warriors of old,
Gladiator and lion alike and I wonder
if I too
am to one day

be the hunted.

The Midnight Hours. I.

The midnight hours call to me.
Darkness given voice with the siren song of countless sleepless nights
The world looks different in the moonlight,
Softer, colder, kinder.
Laid bare in the lingering light of an unseen star,
Spread naked and waiting.
Muted with the hush of deference beneath a spilled ink sky,
a graveyard of glittering ghosts
telling stories of the powerful and the arcane and I wonder
if I too
will be remembered

when I’m gone.

There Was Only Me & My Disgrace

        I think my love affair with the idea of werewolves and shape shifters stems mostly from envy. A yearning to escape the bonds of a society I don’t fully understand and can never seem to find my place in, a shimmering want stemming from an all-consuming  if only.

       If only I could shed my skin and disappear into the wilds with only my baser instincts and the steady beat of my heart.

       If only I could run far and fast enough to lose my thoughts in the wind.

       If only I could learn what it is to be free.

Continue reading There Was Only Me & My Disgrace