wake

The loud roar of silence washed over my ears
And I was deafened.
Lightning flashed angrily
Gnashing at the night sky
But there was no thunder,
No moon to light the way
Though endless stretches
Of fields and tall pine trees.

The thirteenth hour strikes the world
And the glass of the clock
Silently shatters into hundreds of dangerous pieces.
I scene my eyes do not see,
But my mind creates
To escape the sharp shards of myself.

I lie down in a cool bed of grass
That makes my skin tingle.
Let sleep draw my eyes shut
And take me away.
Cloud-shrouded stars
Are spun into a shining dreamcatcher
To shield my tired consciousness
From morbid sights
Waiting to slither into my dreams.

Ghosts steal into my mind
Weaving whispers of the part
And painting its grayish picture.
Misty apparitions half-hidden in the day's darkl light
Haunting the graveyards of my soul.
Silence passes their lips
And fills their eyes with a hollow color
Void of the slightest living gleam.

Beckon me forward
And give offerings of faded red roses
Eaten away by death.
Wraiths of mist and memory
Faintly resemble faces
Of people I once knew.
They watch me with dead eyes
That shouldn't belong to them.
A sight my heart can't stand to see.
Those who live
Should not have gazed like the dead.

Like a funeral procession
They follow my wandering footsteps
Down winding paths
That used to end at the gates of my paradise.
They stand with me
Making my breath cold,
As I gaze at a broken dream.

My Shangri-La is dead.

No more ae there vibrantly colored flowers.
The statues lay fallen.
Dead grasses. dry rivers. and broken violin strings
Forgotten pages of poetry are carried away
By winds moaning melancholy songs.
Perfection is slain,
And lies in ruins.

My world has burned
The ashes have frozen;
Black and charred remains
Of used-to-be beauty
And lost happiness
That was supposed to be neverending.

One by one
Phantoms I know so well
And abhor so dearly
Brush by me
Light as a sigh
Past the newly rusted gates.

Not even my ghosts want me anymore...

Cold and still
Ugly scars corrupt a cool blue surface.
Cracks in my soul.
Small shards cut my tender body
Turning it scarlet.
The dead fires of my spirit
Bring me empty pain.
I yearn so deeply
For a place my eyes have never seen,
A home I have never been.

I am a stranger in my own skin,
Hollowed out by endless days, everlasting nights
And the twisted hand of Fate.
Cruelest of all elements of the world.

Stand alone,
Still holding my dying gift.
Beautiful rose,
Rose red...
Seeping blood and salt-tasting tears.
Soft, sweet petals pierced by sharp thorns
Falling all around my frozen being.

Nevermore...

I whispers as I wake
Under cold October skies.
The stillness of a foggy autumn morning
After the storm has passed.
Dead, gray fingers wrap around my skin.
Does the earth speak again?
Where is the thunder that was silent?
The night chased the lightning away.
Whispering winds murmur sweet enchantments,
Enticing me into an intimate embrace
That freezes my heart.

Leaves have fallen from wooden cliffs
And lay rotting in the dirt.
My blood runs cold
The ice of my veins.
What autumn fire will warm my heart?
Set my soul ablaze for a final time.
My final, flaming glory.

Elusive, glimmering illusions
I search for without ending
Are all lost in the dying moments
Devouring my days.

I am my own ghost.
And I haunt alone.