oRginal poerty

REBIRTH

In shadows deep and darkness grim, A girl did dwell, her thoughts within. She longed to shed her weary skin, To find the light that glowed within.

With every tear and every scar, She peeled away the layers marred. And though the pain did oft impede, She knew that this was what she’d need.

To grow, to change, to be reborn, To leave behind what once was worn. And as she shed her skin of old, A new self did begin to unfold.

With strength and grace, she faced the night, And stepped into the dawning light. No longer bound by fear or doubt, She’d found beauty deep within, without.

A Dream of You

Her gaze, a tempestuous sea of blue, crowned in sorrow's gilded flame,

Faceless, yet fraught with a love that weeps, a silent, mournful claim.

I ache to traverse the void, to her shadowed haven, my spirit's aim,

But she dissolves into the void as I depart, alone, with heartache as my fame.

Home is where butterflies that fly where I can’t see

Draped in blue, she stands—

a silent question in a field of gold.

Home is where the butterflies drift

beyond the reach of sight;

I know now—you are home,

even as a hollow opens inside me.

Home is where the flowers rise with quiet joy,

where loss learns how to bloom,

and you become the many butterflies

flying where I can no longer see.

May your soul find its eternal home

in that gentle space between worlds.

A Small Peace Under a Wide Blue Sky?

Worms in the Flesh

Do you, you, you believe

it was ever promised—

a small peace

under a wide blue sky?

While empty spaces grow,

stretching feverishly in sickened meat.

And if the heartbeat of the damned

and the psychedelic worms

are the only things holding him together—

taming us,

keeping humans like pets—

then each red cross fills the meadows,

covering us in beads and irises.

And somewhere inside his chest,

maybe the worms are dreaming us.

Maybe our programs are open static—

the dead gunners still burning,

their cigarettes bruised down to ash.

And in the silence that follows the ash,

a quieter sky emerges, fragile yet vast—

tracing a hum that will not stop,

a whisper for what crawls beneath.

Empty Spaces / Expanding Meat

The empty spaces grow obediently,

like lungs that forgot their rhythm.

Walls swell inward.

Doorframes pulse with a slow, private fever.

The paint peels back in strips of pale skin,

breathing.

We still set the table.

Still wash our hands.

Still speak in small domestic tones—

but the rooms are thicker now,

dense with something that hums beneath plaster.

The promise—

that small peace under a wide blue sky—

buckles at the corners.

Blue drains to a surgical white.

White bruises violet.

Our reflections lag half a second behind us.

Our shadows blink.

And somewhere between muscle and memory

a hollow opens—

not absence,

but appetite.

The meat expands to fill it.

You can feel it in the wrists first,

then the jaw—

a gentle outward pressure,

as if the body is trying

to remember a larger shape.

We call it weather.

We call it stress.

We call it anything but bloom.

Outside, the meadow remains perfectly green.

Inside, something keeps unfolding

without permission.

And still—

we ask if it was ever promised.

Still—

we wait for the sky

to return to blue.

Blue Sky

You slip out of white eyes,

leave the bones to love the air,

all warped in a clone of my silicone,

while the hum beneath

traces the fragile blue above.

Give me something to write my little poems in—

they don’t mean much

as I lie in desert fashion;

still, nobody’s home.

That’s all right with me.

Swollen blue cheeks,

propped up, holding remote channels

of war TV.

I’ve got an electric cocaine spine,

all fallen marbles rolling through my mind.

These small blue murmurs

to save my mortal, fragile remains.

When the quiet settles,

I’ll cradle what little warmth is left,

listen to the hum between the stars,

and know—

the blue sky could stay awhile.

But even under this blue sky,

the world outside fractures,

and the quiet is not enough,

for beneath it all,

something crawls and remembers.

Hammers on Thin Ice

Shall we burn the books?

Shall we tear the bedsheets of the future’s dead?

Mother—our classroom, desks stretch into endless rows,

heads hanging full of silicone faces.

Oh, mother—

our boys, bellies writhing with worms,

eat the empty pages of schoolboy paper,

singing—drugs on the loose.

Inject the pounding hammers on thin ice,

shaving the hairs from my eyebrows.

The beatings given to me

echo through hollow spaces,

past the bleeding hearts of artists,

exposing every moment

in the cupboard of pain—

until the hive stirs,

and the yard remembers

the crawling things that never sleep.

Gently, Goodbye

Goodbye to the burning shoes.

Goodbye to the grass.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

The clouds gather—

round and soft,

like something drawn

in a child’s careful hand.

The sky grows lighter,

meeting my pretend halfway.

Any color you choose—

watch it glow

between the sun

and the nervous stars.

What more?

You are only your own hero now,

lifting off

from the dark side of the moon.

Below, people walk

inside their buttoned-up shells.

They cling like plastic toys,

posed in permanent understanding.

The childlike sky begins to peel back.

Fields dissolve

into nothing certain.

The worms that stirred in restless night

now rest like threads of silver flame.

They hum beneath my chest,

a tender rhythm in my hands.

Up here, colors melt like forgotten crayons in sunlight.

Up here, more than anyone could dream.

So goodbye to all of you.

Goodbye to the world—

I leave before

you leave me.

Channel 5150

When the doctor tells us

the cure was already injected,

it lands like a fist—

a hard dose

lodged in the throat of the hive,

echoing the hum beneath the skin,

now awake in every yard, every signal.

When the worms wake in the yard,

the schoolboys switch on

Remote Channel 5150,

volume high enough

to drown out the other children.

The Worm Gospels

buzz beneath our skin—

and we stop asking

who buried them there.

The chalk we write with

turns to powder in our hands,

our finest flights

torched in a fevered haze.

The telephone wires hum to the aircraft overhead,

turning our bodies into signals—

and outside the wall,

only the lunatics

remain,

drifting in the pulsing eclipse,

the last axes failing

to silence the worms beneath our raw meat.

Quiet hums replace the frenzy,

a pulse that softens in the walls.

Outside, the yard waits—still wired,

but the noise thins enough

to notice the shapes we almost forgot.

Burning Shoes (1)

Don’t forget the burning shoes on the grass—

soles curling like tongues in a quiet revolt.

You left them there

after the sirens stopped singing.

The newspaper writes itself now.

Headlines hatch in your working worms,

black letters burrowing through the pulp,

chewing through bone-white mornings.

Mother says the lawn looks normal.

Father says the signal is clear.

But the sky flickers—

a cheap projection on hospital walls.

There’s no texture here.

No grain in the plaster.

No corners deep enough to crouch in.

Only the flat scream of daylight

and the hum of Channel 5150

leaking through the sockets,

telling you

you were promised a garden.

But the garden was always

wired.