THE CLOSET MYSTIC

November 16th, 2025

But please, I beg of you: do not squander the gift. Do not squander the gift, and do not regard the gift as anything but a gift.

Do not wait to start living, do not let yourself know a life that isn’t living. You will have your time to die, you can be sure of it— do not spend this life dying. Life is for living, and death is for dying— do not let the two bleed into one another.

And when it is your time, travel lightly to your deathbed, without the weight of regret. And if you must carry regret, let it be of things done, things said— not things not done, things unsaid.
scattered by the winds of change

November 16th, 2025

the air is twinged with the scent of change.

I can choose to be dust,

I can choose to be oak.

Right now, I soften my heels, so oft dug into the dirt.

I yield.

These winds of possibility pick me up, and this flying— it is equal part trust, equal part gliding.

Where do you take me, O spirit of the sky? You, the winds of change— me, dust in a palm. Fingers unfurl, and I am scattered out, out, out, into the world.

But these winds of change carry me on a circular globe. I’ve been thrown so far that I revisit the same places I once lived. I watch my younger self, a phantom— but time is a void that snuffs my voice, it is the vacuum of space that carries no sound. To my younger self, my warnings can only be mouthed, but his eyes are fixed so firmly there, upon the ground.

Little did I know, this communication goes one way. For his way of living, his way of being: it is warning enough. The message, it is for me, not him. I look back, he looks down; he screams the warning, yet he makes no sound. I see his footprints before me, there on the ground— I dance around, round, round. I traverse the same territory, but older. Wiser. I am him, he’s yet to be me— but oh, I will make him proud.

~

…and what do I have but a promise? What do I have but a promise to me, and me alone, that I will do better, be better? Why else should a man live but to outdo himself? A life without growth is a life without hope.

Give yourself a future to look forward to: the promise of betterment.

And when the winds of change come to take you there, yield — let them carry you. Let yourself be dust, scattered by the winds of change.
November 9th, 2025

I saw the young boy crying out for attention

trapped within the belly of a beast.

The young boy only wanted to tap my shoulder—

how did the beast make this known?

The swiping of a paw, the slicing of a claw. Knocked me over, bloodied.

I ran — the young boy cried out louder.

Father, how can I love you?
November 9th, 2025

imagination’s mists are gentle,

so easily scattered by heavy breath.

find your place of stillness—

intelligent molecules of water:

coalesce.

what of the burden?

that soft place within:

it guards my regret.

to let go of the past:

I grip its sands

in fiendish hands.

I guard my coal

as if it’s gold.

can I make myself known?

you hurt me.

can you hear me?

does this truth have a bite?

do you prefer to be blind?

darkness, a blanket:

do not hiss at the light.

but it’s the same story:

my father’s yours,

your father’s mine.

I’m tired of it.

I sat on the dead horse, cracked the reins.

Had the audacity to be stunned

when it didn’t move.

I am tired of it.

I now have my place of refuge

where I can breathe gentle,

imagination’s mists

suspended easy.
November 8th, 2025

No one’s ever freed anything

by hating it.

No one’s ever healed anything

by beating it.

You kicked what was down,

demanding it get up—

you tucked the flower in a closet, then asked it:

“why haven’t you grown?”

You were struck so much,

you flinched at loving hands.

If you’re empty long enough,

drinking in the Sun

will turn your stomach.

Maybe part of healing

is learning to tolerate the medicine.

Maybe poison

is an acquired taste

that needs to be forgotten.
Lazarus

November 4th, 2025

poetry:

you are my geography,

my astronomy.

you alone

make my place in the world,

the universe,

clear.

you teach me

that love

can be your grand

unified theory

of everything.

that the poem

exists

in the cracks,

the in-between—

that where things are broken

they’re given shape,

definition—

that I

am the same.

yes,

that when I break,

then,

and only then

do I learn my true name.

you teach me

god is not dead,

nor high magick —

that poetry is incantation,

to spin verse

is to be spell bound—

but is it

to discover magic

or to create it?

I can’t say which—

but it is to name

the tomb of modernity

Lazarus.

to command verse

is to command the grave—

poetry:

the language of life.
deceiver

November 4th, 2025

when did poetry,

my sole place of freedom,

become

yet another cage?

“put a bow

on your hell—

tell us

how it’s actually heaven.”

“swear

up and down

that your ugly bits

are pretty—

that there’s somebody out there

who sees it

worth redeeming,

that you, in fact,

do not tire of waiting.”

“make a song

of your screams,

and paint

of your blood,

and sweet, sweet mercy

of your bottomless grudge.”

“tell us,

while the tyrant rules,

that good

has the final say,

that,

in spite of the night,

we’re each promised

beautiful day.”

“create and take

an opiate of your choosing.

wrap these lies

in ribbons of truth.

and, while you’re at it,

go—

paint your decay

in a mask of youth.”

“yes, deceiver—

write us poetry.

swear to us, deceiver,

that it will all

be okay.”
November 4th, 2025

inside of me

I saw an ocean.

I cupped my hands,

scooped some water,

tried shaping it

into a poem—

to tell someone,

anyone,

of the sea

from what I could fit

in just two hands.

my failure, it humbled me.

how oft

have I written off

a person’s whole ocean

from but one drop?
oh, poet

November 4th, 2025

why draw a poem

out of thin air?

poet, fill your cup

then pour it on paper.

poet,

what is your job?

poet,

it isn’t the poem.

poet,

you are a teacher.

poet, teach us

how to live,

poet, teach us

how to grieve.

poet, teach us

how to give,

and poet, teach us

to receive.

poet, teach me

when to stay.

poet, teach me

when to leave.

poet, please

teach me to love,

oh, poet,

so much I can’t breathe.

poet,

focus not

on the rhyme

nor on the meter.

show us

how to spend

our time,

oh, poet—

please,

be our teacher.

if you are failing

oh, poet,

to make something of this life:

tell us.

tell us the truth,

oh poet,

that we may be free.

poet, your truth

will set you

and set me

free.

and poet,

if you struggle

to tell the truth,

if you’d sooner hide

than spin your life

into rhyme,

then tell us of this fear.

tell us of your walls,

that you may shine your light

on our own.

i, the poet:

i have nothing to teach you.

i, the poet

have a critical truth

to tell:

i don’t know what i’m doing.

but in this, i am confident.

i hope you understand.
i love my kitties

November 3rd, 2025

cradling purity

in my hands—

best friend,

brother,

and child.

i love

everything about you:

pointed ears, crystalline eyes—

(somehow

both daft and wise—)

and a coat

of warmest snow

that only makes me melt.

when you are a creature’s

safety,

and whole world,

it has this odd effect

of making them

your safety

and your whole world

too.

i love my kitties

scattered by the winds of change

Lazarus

deceiver

oh, poet

i love my kitties