To last the days
that break to Frey
Into this rain that falls
And the silence-
That shoots anew
From a seed lost.

This is our beat.

A crumpled photograph.
To pass unnoticed but seen
And haunt the eyes it meets.
A missing person
looking for its frame,
Finding its shards
on the dinner table,
Reflecting someone,
Someone once there.

The rain is getting loud-
it’s pauses stretch
And I exist in the stills
with no frame.
No glass to shatter
from a tear broken.

I picked up the photograph;
Smooth and worn
from the damp.
Brittle and torn
from the lives it held.
Mocking still,
with its fade.

The features blur
As we do

It doesn’t quite fit,
Edges fiddle to no corners
as if it’s existence passes
to outlines of new owners.

Under currents

Take me down
to the river that floats,
Converging concealed
entities of the future,
understanding of what they became.
We became.

It’s been too long,
We can’t remember
ourselves from each other.
This faint drip
resonates the echo,
Looming in my skull-

Awake I hover
as if asleep.
The night terrors run
into the light. Dancing delight,
Round and around
Begin where you end.
End where you begin-

There is always something
in what was about to be said.

Asleep I drift
to the river bed down.
More alive than above
And rising from below comes-
The meaning we lost.


One man went to the light.
One stayed.

This is not a story.

One walked.
He grew in sight,
Memory was in him
a lace of selfish trails,
Until he became what he saw:
The cold tips of a fore bearing
Tracing what he can’t remember.

One remained.
To grow in memories
gifted to him. An existence
In his ancestry to cling to-
His mind walks.

Everything we know
We took.
It is only our nature.

The man in the light
looks to the man remained.
Through glass he refutes resemblance
to what gave him this brain,
That designed his own chaos.

We are led in imitation.

Sight streams in what we can’t see
And that man remains.
He saw us forgetting.

Through the shade of glass,
We have.

The same.

Two years to make
all they tried to take.

I’m not of a name.
Not of a line, or it’s curve.
Nor the force bearing us down.
My origins awake to a dream
masked in the slumber of another.
I fall out of blindness
Into neither day or night.
Not of body, not of mind

The split in me
Is one you make.

Storm bearers

Who are we to deem
what is a weed
And what may grow.
To govern our ruin
by the sins we lay,
Growing in our eyes,
Bending to false light-
Through which we reach
Ripe for the picking;
The fruit of our demise.

The men have sat
Folded in hands Bare
Of their soil, they toil
Within the loam of mind

The ground cracks to reveal them
Wisened as they are, tapering
to the back of nights, telling
the little ones of the time
They were actually in touch.

The old windmill girdles the night
like a backdrop to the beginning
of the first trail of storm.
The cost of it all.
We begin to know.