the hurtle of snow and the crackle of dust start becoming one once you have been hurt
there was a time when my hands did not resemble
the fragile wings of moths. a face that was not mine had confided in them
and declared me his haphazard lover.
a time when my tongue shivered at the tentative tiptoe of winter and unfurls a laugh into the cold palm of december.
when i was enamored with the chilling crawl of warmth and two palms flitting their jagged lines into completion.
wanting fool, wanting foolishness; free of shame, free to love.
to dare to want is to dare to be without fear
and so the scars of heroes and fools begin to look the same.
against all warnings, you still touch the flame.
against all sense, i speak your name.
in one swing of a moth’s wing, i am against
love and grief are sisters in arms.
finch feather, ephemeral, cobblestone, handhold, lantern-lit path; eden in the arms of someone i can never get back. there was a time when the stars were worth building churches for. not once have they fallen to someone’s rescue; they remain slack-faced and silent in their thrones. they draw themselves closer to bloodshed—to the wretched stink of desperation—for worship burns brighter in man’s darkest moments. only when sullen bodies sink themselves down to reddened earth will you start to see heaven’s cruel intent.
sacrilege is congruent with rage that rids itself of fear.
the gods do not know how to tell their pious and impious children apart
for prayers and curses all fall from similar drooling mouths.
when we fall to our knees and pray we are no different to dogs and slaves.
your ill descent into spit-soaked agony can be made less painful
if you know that no one is coming your way. worship without question makes
for the fastest march to the grave so believe in something that does not
leave your stomach gaping on the cobblestone floor. have you ever seen
of a flame?
how it cleaves through the dark and carves its own place that even when its gone you recognize the traces of its face?
i do not believe in gods which is to say i’m their greatest slave.
i burn brightest when death has her hands on my neck; enamored with the chilling crawl of her warmth and two palms flitting their jagged lines into completion.
neither hero nor fool; these scars of mine look the same as that of fallen men
but i refuse to die
without this putrid sky shaking at the mention of
the stars only care for bloodshed,
so i shall bring the world to its knees like a moth to a flame.
the gods only care for worship,
so i shall burn this old world away
until not even ashes
in memory of rosalyne: the lady, the lover, the lost