Origins (Glass Labyrinth III)

All your origins are still stuck between
your toes as you run, barefoot,
across the shards of the universe
as the glass of realities collapsing
rains down on you

[you press the thoughts against your chest, reabsorbing the tears and the greatness, running with cuts under your feet and a sense of urgency snatching the threads out of your hands as your being blends into the cataclysm, and entangled you push on]

and those who remember will know you
by the embers of constellations burning
on your forehead
tracing the steps of your flight
through the catastrophic failure
of words building worlds breaking worlds, cascades of cyphers, glyphs marking your hands

as you still wonder, running,
when did the labyrinth grow so big

(The part in square brackets is optional at this stage; undecided whether it’s actually part of this piece or a meta comment.)

Raven Night

Rearranging the folds
of night around me
I nestle the birds of my mind
down into the blanket void

smoothing black feathers
until in their gloss the stars ignite
raven dreams rustling, spilling
quiet glitter across
the bed of my little universe

Twilight Bats

Twilight bats dancing by the lake
in the sunset hour, dark wings
soaking up the autumn blue
tasting of steel and forgotten smoke
eclipsing the moon
touching falling clouds
their black silhouette notations
spelling out sleepy thoughts
of days slowing down

Strange Room

I keep dreaming
of that one strange room
at the top of the house
a room I keep forgetting
so it’s left unused

once in a while in a dream
I remember it and enter
go through what’s found there
trying to understand why
the giant space is unused

maybe it’s where dreams are stored


I pruned myself into the semblance
of a garden vine
never prim enough to be mistaken
for the rose on the trellis
but fair enough, quiet enough
yet beneath, my roots
were always itching
twitching with the unruliness
of tree frogs creating a ruckus
a withered storm stirring
inside a cracked jar


I’m waiting for the fog
to climb down the stairs
into the basement of my senses
to the thinning layer separating
worlds, words
perception and skin
white ink curling around fingers
speaking of dreams to come
tales forgotten
burnt for warmth