I come from the forest

Where dreams go to die,

And the smell of loam,
Deep and dark,


Disguises our every secret;
Where the silence,

Impenetrable as the fortress along the shore

Where impossible wishes spawn,

Swallows every sound.


Devil May Cry




The Prince of Hell was wearing a crown of thorns,

And the fruits of the tree had similarly fallen, ripe and round and ready,

Upon the fertile soil of an Eden in sublime abandon,

And Lucifer’s heart, hollow by day,

Had drunk deeply of the dusk light

In a world upon which the sun never set,

But now, as night bled into day,

He wondered how to strike his devil’s bargain with the unmerciful clock,

Contemplated why so many philosophers

Had wondered how many angels can dance upon the head of a pin,

When it was so clear to him

That he was the only one who would ever be made to do so;

“The Devil made me do it,”

He’d say, delirious,

As another night passed,





Is like standing on a mountaintop somewhere,

Watching the stars revolve in their orbits,

Your head spinning with them,

Your heart soaring with the feeling,

Your whole body singing –

Praise be to the victor,

And praise be to his shadow,

For wheresoever it may fall

Will be auspicious ground.



Is like trying to climb the self-same mountain,

Only to be thwarted,

Again, and again,

Each time nearer to the top,

Because that is what hope is –

Being thrown off that rugged mount

 Time and time again,

Never knowing victory,

Yet dreaming of her.