I am the dreamer,
visualizer of untold fates and digressions,
master of self-deception;
I am Horus,
dragging talons of tragedy.

Spinal impulse,
receptors at the ready,
I storm the castles of ghosts;
observing new undulations
of action and tact.

Looking passively for utopia
when my eyes are ajar,
I shiver in the hollow space
of a mind at rest,
tempests swirling past the dark.

Surfacing often crystallizes
all these sights left inside,
now without wings
here in my default world.

she is now one less great deception, 
although I still remain deceived. 


Bliss is a luxury afforded by ignorance.

If the brain is the great sculptor of ones sensory and cognitive perceptions into an efficient and survivable understanding of reality, then might, on a larger scale, our very lives be some edited version of an infinite diversity of converging existences?


Taking so many gulps of air when I finally break the surface.

Love is a contradiction; a cold streak of fear rolled into a deeply-rooted sensation of destiny, the burn of raw fire crackling up my spine. Why do the most profound and sacred loves always push me out of balance?

I put my head under the water, just to feel submersed.

There are never nearly enough cigarette butts in my ash tray to make me forget about the maybes, but I puff and puff until I choke. Two pills, twenty four fucking doses at once, and a handful of grass to keep me fly. Shot after shot after drink after wine before I crumble into dust, with a thousand less chances to get you naked and inside.

I have no fucking idea who's towel this is, but it is soft as hell and its bringing me back.


There is romance in the sorrow.

Too many weeks to count, hidden inside from the sun. Laughter distracts; moments of clarity are suspended like droplets of rain when I'm already soaked. I heave with passion as my libido grasps aimlessly for absolutely any chance at indifference. Isolation beckons brightly in the haze of my addictions.


More chances at triumph further my elation, yet the commendations granted to my eloquence and loyalty only suffer the same tawdry fate of all the prior epiphanies; I still shiver in the spring.