Reading the Signs in Fallen Branches

An uncharacteristically stormy summer night
Crawled in without warning
Rattling the window frames
And wrenching leaves from wind-whipped trees
There is some not-insignificant meaning
Behind this surprise visit
Though, not much more is known
Aside from the unknown
And the intrinsic knowledge
That existence has to mean something more
Somewhere, sometime  

(taken from the poetry collection, Standing on the Threshold of Madness.)
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Graveyard Feline Morning



Walking the rows
Of aged and sunken stone
I came across a large patchwork feral cat
Laying at its feet
Was the still, small body
Of a young rabbit
The feline scampered away
Along the leaf-littered path
And disappeared
Into the surrounding stones

I picked up the still-warm body
And found it still alive
I cradled the creature in my arms
Stroking fingers through its soft fur

Several rows east
Sat upon the edge of a tomb
I found it had died in my hands

I placed its limp body
Upon the grave of a dead child
Marked only with the words ‘Little Tommy’
And that’s where I left it
As I wandered away
Through the crooked stones


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Axe & Scythe

Driving through endless cornfields
Grain silos sprout from their midst
An overcast Midwestern afternoon
Grey clouds stretched for miles
The old farmhouse sits somewhere around here
Sags on its weary piles, long abandoned
Once home to a hardworking, honest family
And as the story goes
The First Nebraska Bank sent word
Of seizing the well-kept house and grounds  
Father, mother, two lovely little girls
Sent into a state of irreparable shock
Days of cellar-distilled whiskey
Has rendered him spent of body and mind
Until one fateful moonlit night
He took a scythe to those cherubic daughters
And an axe to his weeping wife
Finally, taking his own life
By hanging from the rafters
Nothing left
But the creak of wood
And the south-pointed toes of scuffed boots
Swaying softly in a phantom breeze


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Chimerical

Stumbling into this diffused dream
Gilded rays of light
Caress forgotten skin
The forsaken do their time, naturally
And I have drowned myself in the fountain of youth
Many times over

Her lily-sweet breath
Expelled the water from my lungs
Those delicate fingers
Dressing wounds in clean bandages
And her lips pressed soft
Against the flesh of my cheek

Awoken to a nightmare
Laid bare upon cold stone
A heart beating in a clawed hand
And losing more blood by the second



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I Am One with the Dead Trees & Razorblade Winters

This tomb is much too cold
As all three-and-a-half hands point south
And the pages on the calendar
Curl up and die with the dead leaves
This mind has been fractured one too many times
Though, I use the insanity to my advantage
Scrawling words on makeshift parchment
While watching buildings rise from the leaping flames
Old bones that grew disfigured
Now comfortable beneath atrophic skin
But the all-familiar thirst for blood
Never wanes

Never will 
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