Poetry

Solidified

Ice becomes its glaze,

injected just under the surface to spread and fill every

hairline fracture.

Yet deep inside the clay is ragged, gripping on to every last piece

of soul that passes through it,

the desire for its insides to reflect its outer

hopelessly flawed from the outset.

Poetry

35 whispering skulls

The pillars have shattered.

White-hot fire leaps up my skin

surging through every vein, every capillary, every cell.

Cold mist coils around me,

shapeless shadows guilt-trip my actions

as I rush past the sea of dried lavender filled pockets.

I hear my name called.

Sing-songing down the corridor,

trying to distract me from reaching

the thin silver column presenting itself as a door.

I ignore it, and step through

taking the elevator straight up.

Up and up and up.

Poetry

Into reality, my book will burst

Soon, the womb inside my head

will birth the worlds I dream of nightly.

The inhabitants, newborn

will look upon reality.

I know they will seek meaning.

I know they will want to carve

out their place among elders

from families where resources

and soapboxes are far from scarce.

Their voices will be a bawling, weariness inducing

cry. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

With time and hard work, they will

mature. I have found my place.

I am here. I am real.