The Seeker

Before memory could rub the sleep out from her drowsy eyes,

the language of hunger

was carved into my bones.

The precisive marks of it’s calligraphy

cut through membrane,

and slicing into marrow,

licked the tender heat

of my blood.

Burn With Me.

The wind carried a whisper of a thought I’d tossed into the sun to burn.

The ashes from the fire collected storm clouds,
leaving behind a trail...

A Different Mask.

Is there a place where imagination takes form? 

Refraction.

I am the refracted surface your eye reflects upon,

shattered into a million fragments

through the culling of the depth of your perception.

Artful Noise

Sometimes I create spirals of artful noise

to distract you from 
the visceral solitude of

a yearning that draws me into

the vacant stillness of empty streets

not yet haunted by the entrails

of lonely ghosts
seeking shelter from the night.

I Lived Inside a Poem Once.

I lived inside a poem once,
but her words were sometimes cold and dank,
and I shivered into
streams of conscious thought
flailing madly
in a river
of inky midnight
blackhole stars.

The Sound of My True Voice.

I woke up last night

startled by the ghost of phantom tears

that were soaked into my pillow sheet

How old was I, I wonder,

that first time

when I felt shame

colour in the spaces between

the letters of my name?

A Firefly in Love.

If you examine the body's surface
each scar stretches into a trail
felted with the fabric of
stories of stars that wait to be born

My Hidden Song.

Weaving poetry with the
sway of my body,
I am driven by the rage of the black storm
that propels itself forward
to feed the thirst of the tide

Simple Things.

It is the simple things that make me fall in love;
a secret caress
that is whispered

The Flavours of Your Loneliness.

I tested
the inflections of
the flavours of your loneliness
on my tongue,
to see how they compared to the taste of mine.