Thorn

A sicklein the hands of the deadWith a prick of bloodRed As thoughtspeirce inside my headSwirl, drift and seepBled To letfingers deep to pryLeft wide to festerCry To livewith a splintered lieNeglect the woundDie

In Dreams

What can be captured in wakeful statesIs necessity, not choiceThe equilibrium often dictatesWithout a voiceTucked within forgotten dreamsA tense all too terseAs the lucid love of moonbeamsDelivered in verseBlood rushing to cherub cheeksAbashed in innocenceBracing against the rhythmic creaksIs hidden common senseThe days are made to follow onAs the abandon of empty flasksThe contents considered … Continue reading In Dreams