Canescen

The Earth will always turn the same, Churning blackness into blackness,        Pushing the blinking heavens farther away. Man has cleared the warmth from his calculating hearts; His haze has draped the brilliant bodies. And the Earth still spins, Turning blackness against blackness;       Stars are nothing. Perched well beneath the timbers we stand on, Begging for love, Begging for forgiveness, Begging for chapters beyond the stifling skies, These candles fear they have become smoke, Because the Earth still spins, Pouring blackness over blackness        Until there is nothing below.Empty souls drown pounding hearts With heavy fists and har...

When I found my fears, I plodded into the ocean,          heart and soul knotted against my wrists. The currents beguiled my last strands. A heavy breath. My lungs bore my wounds.

The moon harbors a gentle chimera         Who discovered his isolation When God taunted him with strokes of Earth. Forever, he reaches for that same affection,         But drowns his hands in ennui. Perhaps I am his eidolon: Impassioned sheets billowed across the room; A wanting hand clutched the corner of a dresser; Eager toes melted the most fortunate floorboard. I traipsed onto the balcony,         Where I was met by a plea for comfort.Your resonant amber eyes wafted seeds of unity into my effete veins As your anxious fingers wove faith into thirsty skin,         Inviting me to frolic atop diaphanous peaks         And sail polysemy's br...

I. Impetus I enter as a passerby,         offering furtive glances to couples, Strangers who wage war against each other         from within their own consciences. Canvases waft across the blank corridor – Liaisons of thunderous smoke and crumbling cities         that strobe through a room furnished with diverted eyes.Each time the parable fades to black,         I find it easy to believe                 that something so Dark could regulate existence's most intricate enigmas. Malnourished worlds are debris in an expanse littered with passionate stares, Stares that penetrate the transient night to shelter just one.Then the tantrum flashes ...

I hold sovereignty over two. One believes in strength – it is the unaffected sun         Whose radiance delivers unquestionable influence across naïve voids, Leaving them with suave birrs While offering not a single embrace. And these wisps of apathy coalesce into amygdalae,         Submitting fear back to the licentious eye – Such poison is the most beguiling comfort.The other confides in repose – it is the soft moon,         skulking just beyond the light's purview. Ungoverned by the miserly,         Its heart conceals all in heterotelism, Painting detached episodes over an azoic canvas         left to be emblazoned by the ravenous haze,...

"They finger through the corpses as if they're some sort of sick novel preaching that he was never here, but I know he was; I swear he was. I've seen his poisoned face; I've gazed into the eyes of his demon – We all have. God is dead – he must be dead. He would never leave us so unprepared, so helpless, would he? No. Never. He never would; He never could – He has to be dead. He never left; He never left me. Damn you! Tell me he never left me here!" The crazed old man muttered something along those lines before the wreathing, smoky vines dragged him down to hell. His words failed me; I gave him no hand, no cry, no remorse, not even the slig...

Dusk enshrouds paralyzed eyes         whose wretched haze chains down the light, Holding it in bittersweet abeyance. Could it be, that for all the moon's august gleams, it has suffocated? Has it abandoned the foreboding sky? How could it leave me to bow before waning silhouettes? I cannot dream into an empty night.Can't you tell me         why I steal endlessly through fields of cold shoulders, Dismissing the leaden echoes of their billowing nails? Is it just to experience, if only for a moment,         that lonely flower's feigned beauty as it arrests my nerves once again?Hollow hands can only long for the taste of flesh,         And with...

No star is a cynosure. The squalid night often elides those trembling candles,         Leaving nothing but a simple, lithe plea of hope Lost in the doldrums of a transient effluvium. No god is a temple. Éclat is hackneyed and contrived,         while luminous gloom dreams of a crux embellished with apathy and dusted with loss. The darkness is ugly, bare and dry.         Its marred lights diffuse and bleed through the sky, Crawling through despondent clouds         before finally infecting the wary eye. No mind is a heaven. Even the most radiant bliss is left forlorn,         Perverted by bitter streams, fluming into uncertainty, And wispin...