forgive me:
     my god is not your god,
     my flesh is not your flesh,
     my thoughts are not your thoughts,
     my dreams are not your dreams.
forgive me
     for the realization that
     in the end
     we will be indistinguishable
     as two piles
     of dust. 

refreshing the page,
     hoping
     someone cares. 

a man could spend
     a lifetime
     trying to describe
     in words
     what the heart
     knows
     in a mere
     moment,
and never come close. 

to write
     is to clip the wings
     of thought;
     to limit the limitless
     and cast it in chains
     before a gallery
     of spectators.
they will say:
     he was so close.
     if only he pushed
     a little further.

words are not immortal—
     they echo
     softer & softer
     through the generations
     until they vanish
     into the great
     Nothing.

to write
     is to capture
     a sliver of your
     existence for those
     yet to come.
therefore
     write honestly,
     b/c this is how
     you will be
     remembered
     until the echo
     grows too faint
     to hear.

acceptance
     turns temptation
     into regret

soundless songs
     of love
     & longing

At the bottom of the hourglass
     sits Death,
     building sandcastles
     as the grains fall;
     one
     by
     one. 

surrender
to the sleek red ether—
draw it to your mouth
and let it slowly
set your lips
ablaze
with the anticipation
of enlightenment;
imbuing the mind with
spasms of brilliance
& transcending
the imagination
to a realm
inhabited by
men idolized as gods.
the elixer makes
no false promise:
the world is
reborn with light
& sound & a magic
that will soon
be forgotten
until the
next charm
is cast.
this is
the ritual
& rituals form
the core of religion.
even the church entices
you with the
ritual of
a good
drink.

beyond this wall
     freedom
     beckons

mid-afternoon call—
     shamefully hiding
     the sleep in my voice.