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I had forgotten the time of year— Where the air grows colder, And the month bleeds fear. Only to be subtly reminded by the floorboard’s beholder: The lamp by the curtain Shined bright against the angry sky, That, as I left, I am certain. Only to rediscover upon returning, something sly; The room was dark…

Ambition is a portrait on the walls of morality, It hangs over the halls of pride and discontent. A room adorned by a hollow reality, And among the treasures collected, tears lament Of a position of power ransacked by the devil you know. History stares on, at the marble-crested hill, Intently preserving the actions that…

Oh, the things that happen, When the Sun isn’t looking; Whispers down the corridor, With phone calls from Wyoming, Animal tracks on the lawn, And doorbells with midnight snacks. Lamplight flickers and Street Stalkers Are ever present during the late night petrichor. Sleep often keeps us as passersby to the Night’s lingering strangeness, But Random…

Atop the hill on the darkened doorstep, The walls shutter as the thunder rolls. A sorrow less storm crept, Two past Midnight’s tolls. And through the glass, the insomnious flashes, Congregate within the valley. Grumbling with vicious thrashes, As the dreams turn the page to an eventual finale. Photo by Ben Owen on Unsplash

Along the bridged bay, In a stadium past its prime, As a departing team closes its play. A field of oak and grime, Bears witness to its final sport Before its swan song, Along the cliffs of its seaside fort. Where history is measured so very long, A pitcher climbs the clay mound, And plays…

On a bustling Friday afternoon, Along the mall, across the lobby. At the onset of a sweltering June. Partaking in a favorite hobby. Collecting our tickets and turning the corner, A place so beloved and familiar, suddenly becoming empty and eerie. As if entering the parlor for a funeral mourner. The walls are sparse, and…

The White Page and its twin, The White Canvas and its counterpart, The slab of stone, or clay, or lumber. The empty orchestra—with flutes, cellos, and a violin, The sciences, across the Earth and the Stars, impart, While the chalkboard runs long with math and its matching number. An art gallery, and its many forums…

On dawn’s dreary rise, Do the dreams find an end. Lost amid the warring wrack, dreams disguise. You exchange one trouble for another, and they portend: If they are windows into incongruent realities, Then elsewhere, I live a dreadful existence.  And if they are mirages of the twisted mind, I am the master of abnormalities.…

What is success, and its appropriate measure? What is won through the work of ages? A trophy or pride, an achievement or treasure? What is lost to life through scorched, forgotten pages? Standing by the grove of a hazy gray And lost among my twisted badlands, Watching the leaves blow by like it was yesterday.…

The candles steep toward their inevitable demise, Under the glowing moon on this crooked, hallowed night. The Study sits dust riddled with a desk covered in papered lies. Blotted by the blood of pens in the shrinking light. In this chair of ivory and gold, By the warm, burning hearth, Surrounded by portraits of vanity…