voluptious waves throw their arms ( Read more... )

a week has passed ( Read more... )

you are not the joyous boy you used to be ( Read more... )

any excuse to write ( Read more... )

every breath ages my bones ( Read more... )

with blood-encrusted hands ( Read more... )

and Nero laughs, stroking his withered fiddle ( Read more... )

I pound my fists ( Read more... )

the splendor of sunlight
shining on cracks in concrete
give this poet pause.

reflection on loss
is easier than appriciation
of what the gods have given.

everyday presents
another challenge
for the bloodflow,

and the path we walk
is bruised by our
fading footsteps.

there
are
always
ashes
after

the swell of inferno
floating on breezes blown
through ghost lips
that search eternally
for flesh to press.

the ashes remain.
we try to grab them and keep them close,
but our fingers only turn grey,
after the flame grows weary
and cannot continue to light city streets.

after
ashes
always
are
there.