Dark Poetry Prose Poetry February 11, 2006 Dark Poetic Prose

Saturday 02-11-06 12:41am

so saturate the changes with yourself. follow the shadow as heavy feet lurch forward. or appear to. i was myself. always. until i let them become. with a broken pen i wrote letters myself. and all was well until it came time to mail them.

there is the mirror in cool disconnect. magnifying every fraying thread on the screws you twist. there is the envelope as it follows every letter. fitted like skin to that frail skeleton you write. there is the ink. in hues of the deepest color. flowing like blood to the end of every single vein in your paper skin.

so much we are. but have never been.

the nothing collects each moment as tomorrow tempts waning debates within. distilling truth from lies.

neither quench my thirst. but both are addictive.

Saturday 2-11-06 10:58pm

Dangling Particles

It was ugly. As most things are. Blank with futility. Corrupt with hope. As sweet as the first taste. As sour as the last. Every vine betrayed.

With a glance we were closer. Together. The scent of fear my aphrodisiac.

Only subtle shadows dare distinguish us from each other as I looked on astounded at what I had become.

It's not the hunger that is hard to bear. It's only the hunger that I trust. It's the echo as the emptiness quakes under your skin. And through the sound. From the vibrations you feel the utter hollow that is there.

And all you want is to feel whole again.

Saturday 2-11-06 11:39pm

Can You Hear Them?

Three seems ample, but I prefer excess.

The tower stood ogling me. Making me small again. While it blustered taller and taller until in my sight it was only a phantom. A badly drawn cloud in a sky devoid of sun.

It seemes appropriate that this is what I covet. As a child the distance would flirt with my proclivity toward. What better way is there to be a poet than to give yourself up to everything you are. The worst and the best of every weakness.

Only we can find salvation in sin. Ours is not to be saved. But to paint the portrait of what was lost.

And fallen into the darkness now, light seems only a menace. That it would cause me to question my own motives.

Just words.

In darkness and in light. That's all they've ever been.

Just words.

The empty stare of anesthesia in every one.