Split

Before names were carved in stone,
Before iron tasted blood,
The people of the green places danced with Death.

They crowned themselves with leaves and berries,
Bared their skin to bark and thorn,
Welcomed Death into the circle,
Winter feared, honored, worn.

Death came then in borrowed shape,
Bone wrapped in moss and swords,
Watched and counted and learned the rhythm,
Of breath, of laughter, of the world.

And for a long age, the world was whole.

But hunger crept in people’s heart,
They looked at Death and saw a gate,
They asked how much, how soon, how long,

How long a body could endure?
How many lives be bound together?
What if the boundary was torn?

They broke the circle.
They stole the instruments of Death,
And Death responded.

Bodies welded into one,
Mouths fed without filling,
Death walked on hills of bodies and called itself living.

Storms screamed and split the skies.
Roots recoiled from the soil.
The world cracked.
From the wound spread white veins of ruin,
Branching beneath forests and cities alike.

Death no longer dances.
The wild remembers.

So, I implore you, wanderer beloved,
Do not ask how much life can be taken,
Only how it should be released.

This is what I know

This is what I know:
Stories are embers that refuse to die
in the breath of those
who dare to speak them,
dancing between truth
and the dream of a lie.

Pirates carve the flesh of the sea,
the tides,
whispering curses and silver-laced songs,
drinking deep from the wells of the storms,
never drowning,
never home for too long.

There are beings of fire,
hunger,
and light,
consumers of worlds in furious gleams,
and beings of sadness,
softness,
and ice,
crawling the depths of their quiescent dreams.

There is death without tears,
coldness unbowed,
silences vast for a cry to disturb,
and scriptures of tears for death,
—oh, so loud—
that they shatter the stars with the weight of each word.

And magick—oh, magick—woven in ink,
in rustles,
in laughter,
in sorrow and rage,
in spells,
in forgetting,
in stories,
in drink,
in the turning of time, of page, of dying,
in the fate of becoming,
in the sentence of being.

Yes, this is what I know:
Stories are embers that refuse to die.
They burn,
they consume,
they weep,
they ignite—
But, often, too often, they stay trapped inside.

The Gambler’s Hollow

He rode in, dust-bitten,
pockets lined with tarnished silver,
eyes burning under a sun-bleached hat.
Cards snapped, whiskey swirled,
the house always had its fill—
but never enough for him.

The dice called him brother,
the deck shuffled with lies,
the weight of his purse
rose and fell like the tide.
A king at dusk,
a pauper by dawn.
His laughter turned to curses,
his curses turned to prayers,
and his prayers,
turned to nothing.

He lost the last of it.
Coins rattled in other hands.
His own, empty now,
cracked, curling, reaching for something,
anything, to make him whole.

He wandered full of nothing,
shoes full of dust,
heart full of rage.
Loss sharpened his hunger,
not for money—no, never just money—
but for the feeling.
The chase, the risk, the game.
He was the hound. The rabbit.
The blood in the dust.

Trees.
Roots deep, branches stretched to the sky.
No numbers,
no wealth.
Only umbrage,
and lull.

A stray dog followed him one night,
ribs sharp, eyes soft.
It licked his fingers, tasted his hunger,
and gave him nothing in return—
but company.
He should have kicked it away.
He didn’t.

The river croaked,
slick bodies slid under the moon.
Eyes,
wide,
waiting,
endless.
They needed nothing.
He hated them for it.

One night, luck kissed his hand.
He won.
Again.
And again.
Gold piled, the weight of it,
familiar,
but hollow.
The hunger shrank,
the greed remained.

He stopped chasing.
He didn’t need to anymore.
No more dice, no more risk.
Just counting.
Measuring.
Owning.
His fingers traced the edges of wealth.

And without hunger,
without fire,
he felt nothing at all.

A ghost remembered him.
A man with dead eyes and a bullet in his gut.
A man who once begged him
for the last of his coins.
Begged him for mercy.
A man he had laughed at.
A man now laughing back.

The ghost came in nightmares.
It took his warmth,
left him cold in golden sheets.

The bouncer knew him,
and did not care.
A shadow in an alley,
a fist like a hammer.
The gambler hit the ground,
and the ground welcomed him home.
Ribs cracked, blood pooled,
and he felt something at last—
pain.

In his final breath,
the dice rolled one last time,
and he thought—

Of dirt under his nails.
Of morning sun on green fields.
Of the weight of a shovel in his hands.
Of a few coins in his pocket.
Just enough.
Just enough.

Heading 2 Oblivion (H2O)

Today I drank the water that kills you instantly,
Swallowed whole by the lies that shimmer,
Deceptive in its clarity, a crystal tint of despair,
The poison ran through veins where hope did swim,
Mingling with my blood, a lethal draft of grim.

In the core where warmth once flickered bright,
Cold currents forged their paths without remorse,
Each drop a specter, haunting life’s frail vessel,
Sinking deep into the marrow of my dreams,
Where not even screams could pierce the silence deep.

Here I stand, the deadly dose consumed,
Amongst the ruins of what was once revered,
Learning the art of breathing underwater,
Where survival is a strange, wordless truth,
And strength is born from the depleted fountains of my youth.

Armor’s Tale

A forgotten suit of armor slumbers,
Adorned with tales in the language of time.

Thorns embrace the steel,
Scars.

Roses, with petals of fragile elegance,
Weave through the gaps.

A relic of valor,
Now a silent sentinel of solitude,
Guardian of yesteryears,
When battles roared.

Echoes linger in the rusted joints,
It wears its wounds with grace.

Thorns, now comrades in silence,
Speak of sacrifices made in the name of honor.

Symbols of love, bloom amidst the scars,
Beauty amid the harsh.

In the quiet meadow,
Where memories linger,
A requiem for the warrior,
An armor’s whisper.

Twilight Ink

Her lips, a twilight’s ink, brushstrokes on a canvas kissed by the night.

Whispers are woven into this smooth romance,
where silence becomes a visual trance.

Eyes, celestial orbs reflecting dreams,
A surrealistic journey through moonlit streams.

Midnight’s sonnet, cosmic ballet, defying the linear, the mundane fray.

Silhouette, an abstraction against space,
Shadows converse, tangled in the embrace.
A chiaroscuro of secrets, and an enciphered script,
where the commonplace loses its grip.

Moonlight, a spectral ink bleeding on alabaster skin.

Phantom verses etched on the tableau of the night,
A surreptitious language, a clandestine delight.

Experimental echoes,
a symphony beneath the breath,
In her embrace, I found eternal life,
escaping the clasp of death.

Forest Grave

You etch your presence deep into the core.
Each tree, moments shared and memories grown.
Rustling leaves carry the whispers of laughter,
Branches intertwine with echoes of conversations,
The roots dig deep, with the strength of connections.

But as the seasons change, so do the woods within.
The verdant leaves now rustle melancholic.
The branches ache with what’s unsaid,
Roots grapple with emotions entangled.
The forest echoes now with haunting melodies of solitude.

Yet, even as the shadows lengthen,
As the sun casts its farewell upon history,
I find solace in the enduring nature of trees.
Initials carved as a proclamation of unity,
Tell stories of growth, change, and the resilience of hearts.

And so, in the quiet of this eternal forest,
Trees bear the scars of time and affection.
I navigate the pathways of the past.
The forest within is a living, breathing beauty.
The complexity of intertwined existence,
A sanctuary where trees, though scarred, stand tall.

And echoes, bittersweet,
Resonate with the connection,
Time cannot erase.

Unbound Soul

In shadows deep, where freedom lies,
A spirit roams beneath the skies.
No crown to bear, no chains to bind,
A sovereign soul, in heart and mind.

Through realms unseen, this rebel roves,
Defying kings, transcending thrones.
No earthly ruler claims their heart,
In every beat, Anarchy’s art.

Among the stars, they find their kin,
A cosmic dance, where rebels spin.
No allegiance sworn, no fealty paid,
To empires built on power’s blade.

In whispered winds, their anthem sings,
A melody of freedom’s wings.
They live, they die, unapologetically,
A testament to what could be.

No earthly realm can ever shroud,
The boundless spirit, fierce and proud.
In life, in death, forevermore,
An Anarchist, their spirit soars.