lacrimae lunaris

The moon was so alive last night,
cast shadows strong as firelight,
pressing me to with all her might,
and so, I thought of you.

The moon won't listen to my pleas,
she slips soft through the arms of trees,
whispers across the the cold night breeze,
your features, tinted blue.

The moon's magnetic midnight light,
drew me towards the window, bright,
to view a world glowing pure white,
where we have no reason to fight

our feelings; we are lovers here,
out in this city of nights clear,
our desire free on snowy piers,
or streets drenched in moon's tears

of light, plain as what's wrong and right,
or the paper on which I write,
fierce as a child's grip on a kite..
which slips, and falls into the night.


we can't survive here, try we might,
hiding from questions, wrong or right,
too much to lose, too hard to fight
the bite of sirens; dawn's first light.

x

ओं थे अर्रिवल ऑफ़ माय विंग्स

they have arrived now,
encased in the beauty of what can become of a tree
when a soul's work is added.

I hope to add another's, and
to give something in return;

quandoquidem, in honesty,
what I give is not given altruistically.

Let me explain.
I increasingly often find myself so bursting at the seams with feeling
that I fear I could cease to exist if it doesn't become something else.

And so, it's harnessed into whatever is nearest-
what do I have? Language. Sound waves. Light waves.
Beauty is what keeps us alive, really.
Don't you agree?

We fall in love with the world, and are left no choice
but to create more life to share the beauty with.
After all, when left with the soul's ultimatum,
who could ever choose nothing, really?

ab imo pectore,
ad astra per aspera,
ab urbe condita,
ad abque infinitum,
ab quisque corpusculum,
amo te.

to a clear night

Anger slides me roughly down the door,
leaving a heap of itself on the floor;
a seed of fury,
stifled,
reaching,
raw.
Aching
so long to grow
into..

existence?
nonexistence?

Escape.


*(still drafting)*

Nationality.

Nothing is the same in this place.

Here it's not "turning over a new leaf",
and there is no clean linen of snow.

The colors turn like something decaying.


Curdled milk falls from the dirty glass above,
won't allow me to forget my first true love.

":american".

x

doors

Doors slam shut
on my tear-tracked face
from every direction,
even yours.

So here I stand,
at my last escape,
the threshold of
the filthiest of doors.

spero

Change rings alarm bells in my pocket as I walk you home.
Alerts me, says, remember, this is how such things are grown.

Can I trust this heart,
this foolish ugly organ,
playing pretty all the wrong notes
to have finally learnt the score?

To have at last exhausted
this desire for disaster?

his

"you are my sweetest downfall",
"you're my favorite mistake",
what a pity that, like these words,
you aren't mine to take.

x