I wallow in domesticity

and bake cakes

to feed simplicity.

I let them burn – they taste better

Egg shells mixed with walnuts

The frosting curdled,

granular and lackluster.

The oven becomes a temporary sanctuary

Scorched fingers – disturb dormancy.

Don’t mind the blackened crumbs –

just ash

to fill the urn.

Should I decorate with berries or with stones?

Sweet glass

only spits blood

from untold cuts.

My knife will slice a piece

I’ll never eat

and there it will rest – food of flies.

This piece you were not meant to swallow

will mold and rot

like my cadaver.

Be king for the day.

They’ll bow their heads

and pray.

This too ends.

The streets lined with kingmakers,

sorrowed-filled partakers.

The carriage that hauls you

falls like a failed coup.

Blind and deaf you seem,

but know love’s pity hold

shuts off a spite controlled.

Your scream is cut by a seam.

I remember how honeysuckle

grew behind swings

we once took turns reaching the tip

where sun and metal greet.

A break from who we were,

your hands pressed against my back,

and we ached for the unknown.

The gravel-waves,

our metal respite and pretend-home,

now sail through time alone.

The honeysuckle is a specter

that tastes cold

like a stone.

I see your face in rays of gold

and hear your voice as nectar.

What was your prized possession?

The ring of twig and pistil

I forged in March

or the bugbox?

Ladybugs

imprisoned yet loved.

And as you lay lost on cotton waves,

I become a ladybug

and as my wings caress your cheek,

fingers travel lightly

above bruised lips.

Your breath halts under my hand –

our pyre’s lifespan.

Upon the gurney lies the corpse

Eyes and mouth sutured

in a running line.

Putrefying flesh frozen by formaldehyde

The creature’s journey

compressed

into history’s fold.

This mammal of timid rank,

its fears

drank the last drop

of blood.

Its dreams were left

on the side of the road

like the carcass of a bird.

In that amphitheater of frozen specters –

time exists

and climbs to the corner

where the soul lives

caught between what it knew

and what it wishes to sing.

I think I’ll cut my right hand off and ship

it to the place beneath night’s cold embrace. 

I’ll grow resigned to life’s uncertain grip

upon which only words will leave a trace.

With every word I leave myself across

these weathered pages etched with lasting lore.

Where you now find peace was built on great loss

but torn remains make way for souls to soar.

For they too saw a burden to be borne —

the silent ghosts formed from their childhood rites —

haunting minds yet breathing life every morn

and now they rest upon their holy sites. 

So when my corpse snuffs light’s final spark

Know I’m well-versed with travels in the dark.

Will death come to me 

with the fragrance of irises?

The waxy purple — my crown

upon a future throne and velvet robe.

Life had gifted roses

left to wither

and carry as a ruined birthright.

A red crest pinned to my chest.

I’ll travel from life to death

with an orchid at hand.

Fuzzy greenish-white scepter

that will never fester.

In my tomb, 

iris, rose, and orchid will rest.

Their petals dry and breaking

Like a girl who leaves none aching.

Do you deserve eternity?

The kind that lives as the ink dries

and renders the sun   

blind to time.

Was it only I 

the victim – 

raised to burn 

for one who won’t return?

A fire crackles low 

as my skin melts into bone.

If I become a skeleton,

exposed upon a shrine,

can you light a candle 

and stay

on a Wednesday?

You’ll survive in the space 

between reality and regret 

for living on a page

revives you 

in a prison box.

They’ll place you

in a casket,

lowered to the ground.

And then – one day

they’ll know

all I ever wrote

glistened in the light 

but remained

my shrouded rite. 

Before the sun died, 

it lit a fire in your tomb 

You and I two glowing embers, 

waiting to be ash.

One final snip

of the strings of memory

that connect me to you

free

 neglected 

   wings.

Forgive me now I have a chance,

I’ll leave to you this last address.

I hope to meet again in France.

I return to you as these years advance,

left only with a lingering ghost to caress.

Forgive me now I have a chance. 

We were destined for a lifelong dance, 

but collapsed stages withhold success.

I hope to meet again in France. 

The screened doors of a ruined romance

once mine, now to never possess.

Forgive me now I have a chance.

If you could spare but one glance.

To see you now, I won’t repress.

I hope to meet again in France.

At the Pont des Amours, in a trance

with only nature to witness me confess.

Forgive me now I have a chance.

I hope to meet again in France.

There was a raven at my door

And no —

He didn’t sing the song of death and lore.

He only wanted to know

why I’d spent so many years alone.

I thought myself too wise as I wrote,

ignoring that night creature’s woeful eyes.

The twilight was my escape 

and I’ve never cared to be on display,

But when I shut my companion’s door 

this echo blew through the air:

she only lives on paper thrones

and reigns but in her soul.