Walking Through the Cemetery in Prospect Park at 4 O’Clock in the Morning

The gloom and cold will be lifting soon
But the ghosts don’t much care either way
About little things like the weather and Time.
And as I step between their resting places
And try not to trip over their headstones in the dark
They talk to me
About who they were and why they’re here
And I nod without speaking
Because they don’t much care either way
If I talk to them or not
They only know that I’m a new face
Among the old dead ones
Who hasn’t heard their stories yet
And might be willing to listen.

Portrait

I wear her
Like a shroud,
Black
And formless.
I hide in her
Like a shadow,
Huge
And encompassing.
I watch her
In the past,
Tantalizing
But untouchable.
I think of her
Constantly,
Yesterday,
Today
And tomorrow.
And I wonder at the enigma of her,
A light burning in the past,
Casting a long shadow over the present
And obscuring the future.

Untitled and Unfinished

Just posting a little fragment today. It’s something I put up on Twitter a while back and I wanted it to have a more permanent how until I figure out what I’m doing with it. So yeah. There’s nothing to see really. Move along.

Electric eyes sparking over me,
Completing the circuit.
I’m charged, glowing bright
As your current runs through me.

Good Witch

Be good, they tell me
As if they know what that means
As if they even believe in good.
I laugh
To cover up the scream
And try to walk away
But can you ever walk away from what you are?
Are father and mother just accidents
Or are they woven into the bindings
I feel slipping around me?
Responsibility, they call it.
Honor, whatever that is.
Loyalty. Family.
Each idea a comforting loop around my wrists
A chain around my neck
A harness of Constricting Conformity.
I struggle against it,
But the ties just cut deeper
And I start to wonder if
My consent was already given
And rebellion is just the safe word.

A Quiet Stretch of Road

Rough, wet asphalt
Snakes through the darkness
Sometimes yielding to the land
Other times forcing the point
And stark trees spread on either side,
A reminder that this little scar on the earth
Could quickly heal over
And vanish.
A rustle shakes the curtain of pines
And you know that you’re never alone
Even on that desolate strip of tarmac.
A feeling, nervous, stirring
In the pit of your stomach
Reminds you that you could vanish here too.
In the dark, still air
You look up and count the stars
And listen to the sounds that make up the silence
And think about the hidden world that lurks in natural places
And you turn back.
Back to the city.
Back to your world
Where you aren’t an invader,
Pushing uninvited into an alien enclave.
The lights and the noise are a reminder
You are welcome.
That you belong here.
You are home.