The Arbor (Lace)

Forth into arbor.
Every movement entranced. 
Circuitous lulls dissolve themselves 
onto thin, silky lace.
The web envelopes the coastline - 
Ethereal in origin and the present,
The connectivity tactically, carefully
Navigates amongst the leaves.
Evanescence latches to absence
As dew blossoms into shade,
Baptizing the rocks below.
A zenith sways with the hydrangeas, 
And lapses of time
Bitter the salt water breeze;
These wait for Asclepius, 
And for the Peonies
To shudder in the warmth.
And these lapses
Prick the finger
Through purple velvet,
And a bead of blood,
Carefully, tactically,
Surfaces.

The controlled beauty;
A stain,
Until the arbor
Becomes tangible once again.
A deep burgundy drips slowly, softly,
Mesmerizing the ghosts of the lace.

Contrapposto

How relaxed
Can a stance
Be?

Alcyone and Morpheus

Am I entranced, forlorn night fall?
Son of the morning star,
Faint as Aeolus, whispered me,
Blowing through my malachite shawl;
Faint as a whisper that's withered away
Blowing through my malachite shawl.

Stones are rounded by force, my dear.
Sea-glassed son of the sky
Covered my flesh with a gentle veneer 
Of porcelain and marble alike;
With auric pulses preserving my name,
And a voyage no longer alive.

To be Calypso, to embalm -
Honey and silver wine.
Preserve my lapse, ethereal falls,
Beneath the robes of the divine;
Limply drifting, the white lilies sink,
Petals rush in with the tide. 

Your plumes will cradle your father, my love;
Seven dawns will be still.
And through your malachite shawl will come
A dilating tranquil revere
For the smoother stones, captured in space
Between your flight and fear.

Epithalamion (pending further edits)

Silhouettes are often a delusion of shadows.
The small obsidian arrowhead that crashes upon the marble table,
The veil of swirling nightshades constrict themselves upon my delta.
Tricking down,
Shaded by differentiation, 
The floral bloodstream laps up against the clock.
Je ne peux pas parler,
Je ne peux pas penser.
Foreign bindings intertwine along the fragile infrastructure
Of every breath,
The white borders tell so much more than meets the eye.

Je ne peux pas vous toucher.
And they say pines are evergreen,
But seemingly ever gray to me,
And one can only imagine how clouds harmonize with them.
But sometimes the songbirds die,
Or rather, stifle the shadows of the ever grey morgue.
But this is our wedding day.
This is the plaster of Paris 
With us crouched beneath,
And no one knew what we felt that day.
But who's to give instructions?

Sometimes I see myself only as a silhouette.
Sometimes the jagged rocks of cliffs protruding miles into the future.
And I'm frightened.
I'm really frightened. 
Echoes only travel so far
And distance is time.
Solace is found in the strangest places sometimes,
Like the gears of this pocket watch that never turn.

As latitude and longitude is replaced 
By etches of sunlight onto my grave,
Don't lose me.
For we are constantly in orbit
In a world that stands perfectly still.

Tomb 3

Trace the skin

The walls

The pounding of the blood 

Deoxygenated with every helpless gasp.

Every lifeless gasp

Every echo, lavender blooming.

The tomb of perception.

Disembodiment. Disconnection.

Faintly sounding headlights

Step closer. Nearer. 

Nearer than I have ever been; 

My hands reach out, and retract. 

My eyes retract. 

Disillusion.

Five feet. One mile.

I'm dizzy. Nauseous.

Every echo, lavender blooming.

I'm lying. Crawling.

About all things.

Namib Desert

It's always brought some strange familiarity upon me,

The vestiges of earth diffusing throughout every crevasse of my mind.

There is no edge effect here; there cannot be,

For the divergency, the juxtaposition, 

gives rise to mountainous regions far beyond my capacity,

Though vacant I seem.

Vacant I seem, with every glimpse of deserted sea vanishing, diminishing,

In my hands, gently.

But in my blood, in my circuits, or my gears, 

the mechanical factors driving my body to utter insanity,

The mechanical factors lightly grasping onto the last sands,

The next swell pervades the shore.

They've come so close, 

But the impossibility is flawless,

An image perfeclty composed of the dry, the moist, the overbearing heat, and the overwhelming relief.

Perfectly composed, an symphony of only violins and basses.

They've come so close

To recognizing the composer,

To uncoding the edges,

To returning to what they know. 

They've come so close to it all.

But the Namib Desert is opaque, 

not with reasoning, but with being.

Lavender

The iced steeples of drawn out whispers reach out to a place that is far from here,

And not by the swaying petals of lavender,

Nor under the cries of countless horrors,

Do the stars continue to resume their vows of matrimony with the darkness that surrounds them.