you're the mother
of the hurricane
You set the fire
To the night
You're the storm
That flies
between us
The fight that
caused the ice
You're the blade
That brought
The answers
From the war
Of ancient times
You're the love
The wolf
Now prays to
All alone
Above the pines

Poetry is a smooth stone slipping
Wavering back and forth in the water beneath
And the fall of all in a slow transcendent arc
Until it comes to rest
Finally
Like all poetry
At the end and beneath

take it from me, kid;
watching stones fall like raindrops
does not save your head

the world is rendering
in these rabbit eyes
a basilisk turns to stone
in their reflection

Meeting the foul faced fiend & foe we call death.
Lurking about looking for souls, a collector in the truest sense.
Mortals can be persistent,pondering away subsistence.
From death breaths life, a rotting coexistence.

There is nothing but bones left
A gorgeous array of decay
The splendor of existence lost
The amusement of resistance

Gandering at the reaper we can  see life, and reflect
We may see many worlds, life in the blink of an eye, right before our death.

Try not to inject your morals for the minds you infect.
Is there ever really a time when there's absolutely nothing left?
In the world of your mind you must be the architect.
the worlds crumbling down. Your mind is yours to *****

There is nothing but bones left
A gorgeous array of decay
The splendor of existence lost
The amusement of resistance


The dead flower has more power than your wilted soul.
My knife has more life to watch death grow.
That broken glass a stones throw. You are Building up a rebels soul.

There is nothing but bones left
A gorgeous array of decay
The splendor of existence lost
The amusement of resistance

Nothing but bones. Such a gorgeous array. The splendor of existence.The amusement of resistance, and the foul faced fiend we call death.
Looking for souls. Morality they say.....
Mortals can be persistent.
pondering away subsistence.

Gandering at death we see life and reflect
Try not to inject your morals, minds you infect.
Is there ever a time when there's nothing left?
In the world of your mind, be the architect.

The dead flower has more power than your wilted soul.
My knife has more life to watch death grow.
That broken glass, stones throw. Building up a rebels soul.