untouched sand


The slow rustle of leaves,

the falling crescendo of water dripping into soft soil.

A slowing heart rate.

A silent stillness.

A patch of even, untouched sand.

A parcel of stretched, bleached canvas.

Existing to bear the impressions others make on her skin.

Alive to wear the world’s scars.

Her heartbeat mimicking the ebb and flow of the tide.

Her filling and falling chest matching the wind caught in her lover’s sails.

Her eyelids blinking for every human tear shed.

Her life consumed by the weight of the world.


Oh to eradicate the poison that has infiltrated,

made manifest an ugliness, continues to churn–

ambivalent to repercussions,

slyly secreting in an attempt to infect others.

Oh sick poison, rewriting the nature of my insides,

the blood runs black.

Chromosomes mismatched,

synapses firing into a desert arena.

The poison knows no boundaries,

infecting all it glances.

No knowable end.

No possibility of relapsing to normalcy.

I stand to face the future an infected entity.

Safer quarantined, isolated,

yet selfishly incorporated into everyday society.

Invisibly vicious.

Primed to corrupt those I am capable of luring into my embrace.



Hunched over his morning cereal as if it’ll be his only friend for the day.

His movements languorous,

his jaw earnest.

The only occupied swivel stool at the bar.

His companions cold creatures of turquoise plastic,

upright in their posture but unskilled in conversation.

Left to lap up his milk with only his dull, repetitive thoughts as entertainment,

not a single one able to drown out the monotony that pervades his humdrum life.

Abandoned by the hope that once reigned over his youth,

left with a bitter smell of exhausted ambition.


A day began like all others,

a day fated to dictate the rest.

girl alone

The Storm

A thimble full of sorrow,

the wind forcing tears to leave meandering wet trails on her cheeks.

A pink nose under umbrella eyelashes,

full lips parted by an exhale of surrender.

The power of the wind peeling off her layers

laying her bare

thrusting its gusts against her exposed acceptance.

Strands of hair caught in her mouth, her nose, her eyes,

restless broken bits maniacally thrashing about her skull

looking to be tamed.

An opening of herself to peaceful submission.

The brutality of the storm,

its thundering pulse against her body,

countered by a recently discovered internal pool of unrippled tranquility.

A space sacred, untouched, impervious to the shrapnel of the outside world.


A thought supposed constant extinguished by time.

The wick black and no longer exposed to oxygen.

No longer able to breathe.

The coffin containing imaginings of what could be

reluctantly closed and buried.

A wooden edge still creeping out from beneath dark soil

hinting at hope

begging to be grasped.

A wail choked by years of useless turmoil

never to be answered.