Mountains tremble
at her name.
planets shudder.
the stars
wink out
for fear of being seen.
she holds
a thousand Suns
in the palm of her hand.
she is the void
behind the void,
she is the darkness
carrying
the darkness.
who
comes for the reaper
when it’s his time?
it is her.
it’s she
who awaits
when death himself
dies.
time, it is a river that moves as fast as you do.
slow down, slow down, don’t move too fast— for oh, how this life will pass.
empty arms,
empty heart,
mocked
by the ticking clock:
it tallies
every wasted heartbeat.
my body is stone.
this
is waking sleep paralysis.
some unseen demon
sits upon my chest.
i scream at my limbs:
whose hands
are clasped over their ears?
betrayed by all:
even this
still-alive corpse.
some lives are death
long before the coffin—
some are ash
long before the urn—
this,
this is one of them.
so-called reality met its finality when you broke the chains of causality — “what a malady,” he said madly, “to obey rationality and its suffocating apathy, when actually to live happily is to discard what’s known factually and to let your heart lead — passionately.”
a life of confinement needs a moment of atonement — out of character, the 4th wall broken. a flash, a bolt, the cell door open. “Go– run,” the fates have spoken. the mind electrified, forever awoken.
tell me what would change
i’m already a ghost
it would be the same
i’m already a ghost
i’m sorry for the pain
i need to be a ghost…
empty in my chest
forgotten is the soul
though i did my best
forgotten is the soul
how could i forget
the rot inside my soul
farewell, farewell,
it’s time to be a ghost
this is the real hell
and all of you are ghosts
know that it’s been swell
to each of thee a toast
so if you feel a breeze,
know that its just me
the ghost.
your gentle grace
thawed my heart.
what greater image of hope
of rebellion
than in the ruins of a war torn world:
a single butterfly,
dancing, floating,
angelic amidst the ash.
a butterfly joined me on my walk
floating with grace
her painted canvas wings
a fluttering heartbeat.
they made me pause.
what are you doing, butterfly?
i saw its past, i saw its future,
breaching its cocoon,
then faltering, returning
to the earth’s womb.
i wondered:
what are you doing, butterfly?
why?
you emerge,
you return,
simply to grace our path?
why?
nature, so peculiar,
this thing you do.
the whole of life,
it seems to have no other reason
than to be briefly beautiful
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 