Behold These Eyes

Behold this night:

 

I hold close to my heart

a darkness,

a night without fail.

Comforting is the absence

of light—the strokes of black

painted, swift upon the world.

 

I ask why?

How can it be that darkness,

not light,

heals these wounds?

 

This strange world,

these strange people

looming all around.

Their smiles,

their laughter,

their words,

their hate,

their cries,

all just shadowed

beasts waiting to pounce.

 

But this darkness,

distilled from the night’s tears,

holds me bosomed against its

ever beating heart.

Tucked away in its

veins that heal.

Until dawn is birthed again—

leaving me to burn to ash

and wash away.

 

 

 

 

 

Him and I

I’m in this room. It’s white with four walls—a box. When I turn and look, writing appears, hieroglyphics I cannot understand.

So I turn my back and look toward another. This one holds poetry written in cursive—I cannot read cursive, but I do recognize my name.

What is this? What is this room? I look down. My shoes appear to be fluid, intangible. I begin melting into the floor, a part of the floor.

Though I no longer exist in a body, I have become my thoughts, floating through the veins that make up these walls—this box.

What is happening to me! I am just a thought, but I cannot comprehend. I travel through these veins and finally up a wall, melding into the cursive lines of my name.

Hot, searing is the feeling. The ink burns, sizzling to ash. I am nonexistent.

 

He opens the doors. Looking around the box, he focuses in on the charcoal marks where my name burned into the wall. He steps over, and writes his name upon the wall.

He is me; I am him. We do not exist; we are simply masks our souls decide to wear.

 

Ever Connected

This ceiling fan,

jammed into the ceiling

like a knife in a body,

sits still—no movement

no play.

 

I sit below

and to the right.

The switch—the mechanical

brain—sits behind me.

 

Is this a web of

thought patterns:

Does the fan beg to move?

Does the switch beg to be flipped?

I am in control of this fan,

yet why so hard

to be in control of me—

my feelings, my thoughts?

 

Could it be

because I neglect the needs

of this ceiling fan?

 

Perhaps when I neglect

neglect the needs of others

I relequish control

over my needs,

my well-being.

 

But the fan is connected

by patterns of thoughts

from it

to the switch

to me,

sending signals

lights, feelings, gestures.

 

Perhaps others’ needs

are connected to mine:

fulfill one

to fulfill the other.

 

By severing my relationship with one,

I sever a piece of the relationship with myself—

I neglect; I die

slowly like poison working its way to the heart.

Lost in Her

I’m not sure what it is:

Her deep brown hair

Or electric smile.

But there is something

In the midst of her

3 dimensional

Presence—

Somewhere between

Her smile and her heart

Lies a web of silk,

Each strand

Transcending my mind

And catching me in the abyss

Of her personality.

 

My essence,

Draped with the shadow

Of my waking hours,

Waits to be undressed by the night’s kiss—yet

I can’t.

I must not.

 

Curious:

She breeches the sapphire veil

And I lose myself in the scope of her stare.

 

 

Simply Curious

There,

in the corner of a room

he sits upon a stool,

framed by the vacancy

of white walls.

Still a young boy,

still curious about life.

 

In his small hands

he holds a can of soda,

coveting it like a diamond.

 

He knows nothing of diamonds,

too young,

only of the peculiar can he holds—

a contained puddle of

liquid sugar infused

with red dye.

 

He sips his drink

sip, small sip, medium sip,

but never a large sip—

cherish this foreign liquid

he must.

 

He turns his head to the side

curious (about something, anything)

and blink his eyes,

testing for mechanical failure:

A routine performed often

as he tries to unravel life’s

anomalies.

 

A fly catches his attention

Just as sudden as the dog from yesterday.

He drops his soda,

watching it travel through space—

his pliable countenance bending in cadence

with this terrible happening.

Falling, hitting

now a small puddle

of liquid on the floor.

 

He gazes into his colored reflection.

He tries to blink his eyes,

but can’t.

The face in the reflection opens wide

and shows him this:

Seattle at night.

Darkness penetrating

every angle of existence.

An alley slicken with fear

remains the varicose vein

for death.

Metallic, shiny, sharp,

stabbing—a man

dies. Lying on the street,

his last words escape his lips,

“I wish I had never grown up,

had never seen darkness.

I just want to sip my cherry soda.”

 

 

My Blue Bus of Thoughts

This blue bus

and gray seat

holds me in the womb

of chaos.

I take the window seat,

and look upon the flitting

scenes of life.

I reach

touching glass,

trying to grasp

that which flies by.

Gone.

 

If only I can penetrate

this glass of mental friction,

I might touch the seams

of my racing life.

I must. I can—not stop

pressing the breaks

to slow the pace of my thoughts.

My thoughts must stop

so I can speak the present,

manifesting now

as lucid and warped

as a candle

burning under water.

Frames

In this room

I sit.

I sit gazing through windows

lined with red frames

framing my vision to a set

perspective.

I see parts of nature

in my view.

Fragments of beauty

wanting to be whole

but separate, instead.

Through the scale of my mind

I can create the rest of this scene—

yet, surreal.

 

I don’t want this

preprogrammed

panorama of life

seen through the still glass of my world.

My world must be rendered in complete.

So I close my eyes,

my pliable eyelids cling

to the fabric of my face:

I see skyscrapers

and people, places

and waters—people

drowning in the places of these waters.

No life rafts to save

their souls:

they’re consumed by the their box with windows.