Art ...

whispers through books
pages concealed 
dusty shelves of incomplete verses 
broken lines healed 
fingers that run through creases 
tracing words from skies
poetry and death alike 
forbidden art in your eyes.

Muse ...

Be the muse who bleeds through every crack and every fissure of my broken soul. Let me pour you in, get drunk on your taste and dance to your breaths. Let me spill you on paper in crooked, shattered ways. Every day. On new pages with old inks. I want the world to see how romantic melancholy can be. I want them to hear how melodious trapped cries sound. I want them to feel how home can be. Just how you can make me bleed.

Silenced ...

Haze out the lines
That flow thick and dark
Through the valleys of your pages
For we will hold on
On blankness 
And not let a single drop drip
The flutter of rapid turns
And moistened corners
We will outlive all
Sing of unworded emptiness 
Magnificence it is
The way you collapse 
On sheets that wait to bleed
And rise back
All quiet 
All silenced.

Obsolescence ...

I let it drop
Shatter
Crack
Surge
Fall back
Take and consume me
From cell to soul
To cleanse
And baptize
The obsolescence
Of fogged up memories
Remaining too little
Too much
Too long
Breaths for remembrance
And whispers for sanity.