Counting Webs

If the night weren’t full of shadow
and we aren’t what we see,
Then could we
be drawn out this eclipse?
For what is a shadow
but a lapse
into the beauty we cant hold,
What we deny ourselves to see.

The way we grow
it floods into too much shade,
We can’t run
for these shadows
grow to cover us
and resemble our ruins.
What is rubble to soil?
What is this need to build
as if these cities
were the promise
of pasts forgotten.

A loose thread dangles from the web
hanging high above our minds,
Which narrows to the ease of
We trade our souls
for need to grow.

We are the trap we have set
the silken intricacy of our own divide
and somewhere, sometimes,
we find the remnants
of of our chaos undone.
As a wind it passes
as effortlessly as we now forget,
but where can we hide?

Every height we climb
we will meet our penance
as a moon is mirror to a sun,
we have no path to catharsis.

A mask is shading us,
Whoever we become.
We are no longer of the land,
Nor the sea
that touched our foreheads.
We have been sent back
and all we can do,
will stumble short of enough.

We design our own chaos.
So wise is man.

We exist in beauty stolen
and the brash negligence
of a tempest beyond the mist.

Broken views all that’s left,
Scattered scarce
in the lattice we make.
All along,
Spinning at an untoward momentum.
We are our own inception.

Tread carefully behind the path of man.
Tread light upon the lace of a spider.
Who are we hiding from, if not ourselves?


In the beginning,
before the morning broke,
mother never used to cry.

In the beginning,
folk big and small knew the law,
father knew no lie.
We happened upon a mishap.
People none to easy to keep happy,
Words none too easy to keep to.

In the beginning,
I don’tremember much.

They took me from mama.
They took pa from mama,
Who lay still to the sea
that brought me to the enemy.

Those were the loneliest of nights,
dreaming backwards for the promise
of shelter. Any old thing to cling to.

A child of no warmth.
There were a few
-They say.

As a root grows darker
in seeing a branch touch the light,
I became a shadow,
Loneliness a rhythm
of bland mouthfuls until
I became the aftertaste
of what they’d done.

Tell me of a time of no wrong.

I, a child in a playground of war
stuck on the other side of home.
A doll of thin bones
left to the cold.
Some faces I can no longer draw.
Is it unforgivable to have forgotten?

In the dead of winter,
When the pallor took my skin-
a coat came..

It was not much.
I don’t need all too much.
I have learned a thing or two.
It was enough.
It gave me comfort,
Some of my color back.

I began to dream again;
all through the day
became my fancy, of the face
behind the label on the back of me.
It was something to cling to
and I was lone at heart,
lone to all about me.

It seems strange to say now,
Distant as distance undone
but I kept that coat
even when cold was gone-

I met my gran upon shores of people
in that very coat.
It was not much.
but it gave me hope
and how I dallied endless
to uncover this mystery
given to me.

This is the only thing I care to own
but I have a story to finish off
and I have longed for this day,
even if it is only a silly story.

Forgive me for my tears,
you see there are some moments
too precious to be held by time
and long has been my wait.

I believe we met
the day I took charge that coat,
For I have seen a lot of faces
and dreamed beyond those too
and in every dream I envisioned you
and each morning I woke alone,
I woke to the chance of you.

It may sound ridiculous
but there is something sublime
in the simplest of things
and for that I thank you.

I believe this coat is yours.

I am weary now.

The days have no sheen
and the nights find me
awake to no one but myself.

I dream free
of a collapse in the equilibrium
of a past and future
and conceal myself in beauty,
walked past. Time is what we make it
and yet we walk by.


Lives are carved intricate as

the fall of leaves from the baobab tree.

Into the cuts of her pregnant body, 

a fresh green hue dulls to be forgot

lives are hemmed on time.

The breach of day into the next

To propagate the stem of a year

in another, as counterpart eras 

that no not how to figure

Through memory’s fading gaze

we play under the maze of her shade

bent to age, some stay and some leave

but nobody every breaks free.

If we are all trapped,

to grow slow by a cold flame

preserving us in our quietude,

then sit under this old tree,

sit and wait for me-

I will come with the rain

I will come with death

I will come to you-

In death, as a birth

upon the shallow waters

of a tide that exists in what it gives 

and takes.

I will brush the leaves of this tree

until each dew drop,

each life falls into one

and we see not in fragments

but as an endless stream undone

to paint passed our contrived horizon.

Lightness and Weight

In the dark waters slow lull;
in the depths of another life,
beneath the clarity of the surface-
past where vision blinds to let you dream,
deeper into your silhouette on the water.

You will see her tail disappear.
The precision of incalculable grace-
a balance of the worlds lightness and weight.

No matter how long you wait,
the course of patience owns no time.
Wait your life if you can’t see,
that some things we may never learn.

All about you lies a balance
All about you it is born

A harsh thirst for deliverance
but if we were to only listen,
to shake this concentric self
and understand the complexity
of the laces of connections
moving intricate through beings
attached intrinsically and wholly.
And understand this movement,
as a muse to daughter us equal.

Under the gentle current of a dream
I saw her again, not knowing why
I was seeing through her closed eyes,
this ancient fish with a mouth wide,
as to encompass all the candles
in the sky of a lonely fishers night.

I saw her counting her young;
effortlessly still to weight,
as I saw myself break the surface-
to drift back down to the depths.
Up and down-
To no end-
and each time I broke free,
I felt myself heavy on the floor
and each time I drowned,
I felt myself draw breath.

I do not know whether I have awoke
or if I still lay restless in her sleep,
but I have lost all of me
and in doing so,
fathered in me,
not the power to float.
Nor that to sink,
but the power to be still
and belong to everything.

Sold out souls

There comes a place we fall lost
with color ripening in the limbs
of a dangling vine in fair moss,
Who’s light only falters and dims-

When we have felt and seen it
inside ourselves-

Inside the fear of waking,
buried beneath our dreams,
alone and bare:
Bodies stripped of desire-

To fall into a balance;
a symmetrical beat,
aside from this path.
The hem of thought.
The birth of a dream.
We walk no further-

Afraid of the dark
around the color of night.
Afraid of the duality
that clefts our soul,
as we sleep-

We wander long down our thoughts,
That coalesce to dreams
we cannot wake from.

The color of the blind

A chance blows to the wind-
an orchestrated silence takes claim.
Hunger licks the lips
of every rise and fall
till this land lays lame.

Take me as your call.
The limbs to your shade.
The voice of dusk,
when it’s cold out front
and nobody hangs behind you.

For I am everything in one,
taken from the light of the sun.
I reflect a rhythm-
that settles the tide
and sets the night.
I am what you can see.
The unspoken prize,
We are out to get.

I grow free.
I am memory;
a strangling vine,
watered to bring you
back to the time
that I flowed through rivers
and ended as sightless
as a memory lost.

Do You remember?

When tears had a balance.
When all about you was unknown.
A walk in the night
and you awoke
alive in distant leaves,
Shaken from the ground
to the beat of love,
strung and unstrung
around the ghosts of trees.

Or have you forgot?

To enter an abiding trance.
Where only what is shown Is known
and all knowledge remains trite
to the silence in which we soak,
Drown and float, to grieve
not the fate to which we are bound-
but that this moment can never be enough,
To beings that hold the world
but in themselves
see nothing.