Dark Poetry Prose Poetry October 27, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

9:01pm 10-27-04 wednesday

candles making monsters on the ceiling out of ordinary things. isn't that just like what the flame in our heart does with everything good we see?

light will make shadows. that's unfortunate. but it's our choice how we perceive them.

the pen doesn't write. it draws out. the words don't explain. they just create more mysteries.

the weapon is the way everything changes. and the wound is how nothing really does.

my heart's not inside of me. i'm in it. and i don't know how to make it right.

as far as i can tell, there's nothing left to tell. just time circling overhead like a vulture in this desert life.

the future never offered. and i never asked. it would sometimes tease me like a drunken father and then i'd run off for a while.

i've never had any yearning to get to know tomorrow. and it didn't care since it had so many other admirers.

so as far i can tell, the weapon is reality. and the wound is myself.

10-27-04 11:06pm wednesday

your eyes are a spiral staircase. turning gracefully upward at an elegant pace.

time is concrete. but it still needs to harden. there's always a chance to choose a different pose before it sets.

for the most part life doesn't make that much difference in mine. feathers fall every now and then out of the sky and i wonder about the wings they have left. what winds have carried them. how high they might've been.

didn't learn anything yesterday. haven't learned anything tonight. or anything at all.

just watching. still watching time building its walls.