and their ashes will blow away




The old photographs

Tell a story like he could never;

They’ll keep your secrets,

Those long departed who needn’t hope to die;

And they’ll smile – frown –  sit, pensive,

Or be caught in a moment of ecstasy eternal,

Until the day he tires of their ceaseless, immortal existence –

Then, he’ll build a bonfire on the beach and

Pale, ruinous flame will lick and flick at their edges –

Their smiles will curl one last time, and be gone,

And their ashes will blow away,

Still burning.



Wild Thing




Pardon me,

That I may gaze upon you,

Your figure twisted into a Peaceful Warrior,

Hips stacked, body balanced, arms aligned, head high,

Staring into the face of the universe without fear,

The sunlight dappled across your skin like waves

Lapping upon the shore of my dreams,

Like a heat map that leads my eyes to yours,

Like a road flare illuminating the shadows of your soul,

And in the half light, the moment stretches, and,

Brought to the breaking point,

Sings one last warbling note on its golden lyre,

Then shatters.





Is misunderstood;

Beauty, she is not,

But rather

The juxtaposition

Of the immortality of God,

And the inevitable impermanence

Of all that is borne of Him;

The flower fades,

The fruit ferments of the vine,

Humanity flares up like a firework,

And, falling, sets the forest afire from afar.


The fall is not art,

But rather, the art in the fall

Can be found at the very instant

That the flaring, fading, not-yet-falling firework

Reaches its zenith,

And, cresting upon the shore of its dreams,

Can rise no more.

Don’t Call Me Beautiful

Girl with delicate  flowers in hair and fashion  fuchsia nail


Don’t call me beautiful;

I am not the sunset to your sky,

And besides, hasn’t anyone told you that beauty is but a fleeting lie?


Don’t call me beautiful,

I am not the soundtrack to your cinema debut;

And in any case, I – I am painted in a darker hue.


Don’t call me beautiful,

I am not the moth to your flame.

Call me by my name.