Sipping Nightmares

Swirling russet drifting

as crackled mug tilts

mottled tips of cream

devising dances ‘cross the top –

calling intricate shadows

until truth sinks beneath the surface

lost to the bubbling brown

as lips are berthed against the side

and down the drink slides.


Her Tormentor

Lukewarm water slid over freezing skin, soaking into open pore only to find icy blood. It flowed in icy rivulets, trapped inside a broken body. An arm rose, causing a thin curtain of water to cascade beneath and through the waterfall pale skin radiated an eerie glow, while malevolent shadows danced on white tile walls: their forked tongues licking up stray droplets. Long fingers traced along the brown-streaked bottom of the bathtub and overhead artificial light flickered unsteadily, periodically letting darkness take control. The room was deathly silent and yet roared with the ethereal cries of suppressed thoughts.

Slowly, the figure rose, intricate designs shimmering as they rushed down angular bones. Her delicate feet exited the water, the bathroom rug tickling her arches and the water evaporated on her shivering frame. Yet, like always, she noticed nothing. Her eyes were glazed like glassy frosting upon an uneaten cupcake. A finger twitched. Then her eyes closed, as she tried to shut out what was burned into her mind. The truth in the mirror – distorted by a silent tormenter, endearing only to the innocent.

As much as she tied, her captor would never go. Flowing with rivulets of purple, it left a inky trail to dissipate between white bones and dark tissue, gradually filling her broken body.

Her arm rose once again, but this time no water streamed beneath. In her clenched fist was glinting silver –  and once again the girl tried to rid her body of the poison left behind by her tormentor.

Just a Little Cut

It was just a little cut.


The tickling of the blade against my smooth skin,

The pleasure in my eyes reflected in the blade’s silver,

as past hopes and dreams have begin to wither,

And the present is all that’s ever been.


The knife and me.

For months I have searched for this:

This key.

A way to unlock the anguish that resides;

deep in the crannies of my mind.

And here it is.

The knife and me.


It was just a little cut.


It didn’t take much,

Just a little pressure,

And the knife slides in,

Painting crimson speckled skin,

brushstrokes taken in leisure.


It was just a little cut.


A scratch, a nick,

The red line will soon be gone,

Matters of hours

It will hardly be that long.


It was just a little cut.


But as the knife slips out,

A broken mind caves

a thousands whispers collide within;

the torrent of emotion wins.

And I cut




It’s just a little cut.


The blood-stained sheets of the bed

Lie beneath my arm:

which like the waning moon,

grows ever smaller,

as beige turns to scarlet..


There’s the little cut –

That turned to something more.

Little Dreams

Rickety wood long bent from hard pressed values

Sticky fingerprints left to rot for decades

crying past in time linked to bodies of the fallen

dragging through space relentlessly.

Exhaled breaths attempt to expel pungent memories

yet tendrils refuse to unravel; locked in crystalline structure

woven by bleeding fingers

torn from years of mistakes

and singed by the flames of others.

Between the crevices lurk little dreams,

throbbing from fear of darkness,

having long since fallen from unzipped pockets

not noticed when left behind

to freeze as seasons turn.

They weep in sorrow

forever burned by frostbite

shivering in an eternity

beneath the old wooden bench

stained from what people left behind.


My name spiraled through the whirlwind

glimpses of the omnipotent; shattered meanings

whispered before forgotten, to tempest storms.


A ruckus blown across deserted lands

tickling dust up from hibernating nests

and tossing auburn stained and weathered leaves

ever crumbling cliffs a-leaning.


Weeping rocks to white tipped pleas of the ocean

And with the cacophony of cries, still it rang out

syllables slitting through the rest.


As power coarses from glowing fingers; finally at rest,

laid upon sweet clusters of white,

and eyes ricochet across crannied lands

watching for the response to the echoing call.


Compulsion pulls but hearts sewn too tightly

to accept the whisper from above.


Head ducked beneath wingless arms

stained feet fleet over scorched grass

and mellowed waters.

And I go far

far from the bouncing echoes

of my name.

Closed Doors

Dilated pupils through tarnished keyholes

Snowy fingers wrap around deep brass

and as it’s turned

unfamiliar light dribbles

and overcomes the darkness beyond.


An oscillating visage

lips puckered in surprise

at the empty closet before her.


Dragging hands across dusty shelves

which I last climbed on.


A sharp breath of the musky air,

from which I last breathed.


Through the thin overcoat

I feel her shiver

and hear her start to hum

a tune too happy for the silence

which I left behind.


When the melody is swallowed

by the dark atmosphere

I know.


Black box uncovered.

Uncertainty a curtain in wide eyes.

Yet all that lies is a black belt

from which I last used.


And as she leaves

a door is left ajar

illuminating a transparent persona

and the last place I hung

as death took it’s willing victim

behind a closed door.

Bird’s Echoes

White specks swarming,

mass of ricocheting limbs,

and torrents of lost feathers.


Cries cascade out

from the battlefield.


Undulating bodies

throbbing with unsung tune

as claws dipped in red

paint the sky a dripping sunset.


Reeling and plunging

a ferocious dance

of red death

as a bloody moon begins to rise.


When the dark of night,

smoldered by the first rays of new sun

it retreats.


Feather-strewn hills lay waiting

as the world holds it breath

staring at the battlefield

where cries still echo.

The Black Rose

Oh, the black rose does grow,

beneath dead skies,
between deserted lands,
and above the thumping heart.

Oh, the black rose does grow,
where white phantoms,
walk windowed halls,
as dark cloaks sent flying
slip by disintegrating sanity.
The eluding wind
It grows,
It falls,
It dies.

Clouds condensing
thick walls to shade
the eyes from above from watching.
And as all is obscured by weighty fog
The tumbling rain,
It grows,
It falls,
It dies.

Oh, the black rose does grow,
Thorns piercing weakened hearts.
Blood droplet drawn,
It grows,
It falls,
It dies.

Oh, the black rose does grow,
It creeps around edges of souls,
Points stained from countless piercings.
Squeezing through stitched fragments
it blooms in eternal misery.
Time drones on,
It grows,
It falls,
It dies.

Oh, the black rose does grow,
Until it’s time for picking.
When clocks have run out of numbers
and the sun has nowhere to set.
Then all there’s left
is the blood on my wrist
the blood on my knife
the blood on my heart
and the black rose in my mind.

It grows,
It falls,

and I die.

Seeing Too Far

Open orbs of sight

watching scarlet tint

the furled of leaves.


Roots upturning cement

exploring the world above

poking through like a whale in the sea

frozen half-way out.


Gnarled lines etched deep –

a markage of memories.


Red brick ash lies silent

as senile beds sink lower

while the Earth caves deeper beneath the weight

of humanity.


And my quivering eyes

throb with the fear of the future.