I've spent the last days of my youth,
shirking, dodging, refusing adulthood.
Promises of redemption fade with time,
with hairlines, with heartaches and histrionics.
I'm Peter fucking Pan.
A king among children.
Last of a dying breed
of adult runaways.
Unordained
When my Sisyphean mask fails,
and you are made, at last, to see
the grasping tendrils
of my madnesses;
Will you see me through my naked face,
or will you even hold my gaze?
Is there anything left
of me worth saving?
Pourquoi
ne suis-je pas
vivant?
and you are made, at last, to see
the grasping tendrils
of my madnesses;
Will you see me through my naked face,
or will you even hold my gaze?
Is there anything left
of me worth saving?
Pourquoi
ne suis-je pas
vivant?
Distraction
Five years wasted,
paralyzed by fear.
Sliding across the earth,
like the shadow of a snake.
Loneliness is the curse,
that gives us the means
to achieve greatness,
the desire to drive us
toward its pursuit,
and the madness to distract us
from its fulfillment.
paralyzed by fear.
Sliding across the earth,
like the shadow of a snake.
Loneliness is the curse,
that gives us the means
to achieve greatness,
the desire to drive us
toward its pursuit,
and the madness to distract us
from its fulfillment.
Diptych
Sometimes it hurts
More than this,
When everything
I want to be,
Seems so far
Away from here.
Beyond my reach.
Away from me.
More than this,
When everything
I want to be,
Seems so far
Away from here.
Beyond my reach.
Away from me.
Sepia
It has taken many years
to gather the strength,
but now I'd like to look back
across the wreckage of our life together
to find comfort in its idylls.
Yet I find the memories
do not come easily to mind,
like opening a trusted photo album,
and finding many of the pictures
have rotted away.
Worse, kept so long from sight,
they've become pale and
sickly to look upon-
A confusion of sepia-toned
unloveliness.
There is no comfort here,
and if there ever was,
it has been lost,
along with so many
other things.
to gather the strength,
but now I'd like to look back
across the wreckage of our life together
to find comfort in its idylls.
Yet I find the memories
do not come easily to mind,
like opening a trusted photo album,
and finding many of the pictures
have rotted away.
Worse, kept so long from sight,
they've become pale and
sickly to look upon-
A confusion of sepia-toned
unloveliness.
There is no comfort here,
and if there ever was,
it has been lost,
along with so many
other things.
Unmoved
Things are strange, indeed.
I always thought life was supposed to be about ups and downs,
and the best one could reasonably hope for was a high average.
Lately, I'm living a straight line, or a dot, suspended in time.
A static node about which things revolve but do not touch. First mover, unmoved.
I miss you as I miss my childhood, true emotions.
First impressions, first chances, first loves.
I love you and I love nothing.
I always thought life was supposed to be about ups and downs,
and the best one could reasonably hope for was a high average.
Lately, I'm living a straight line, or a dot, suspended in time.
A static node about which things revolve but do not touch. First mover, unmoved.
I miss you as I miss my childhood, true emotions.
First impressions, first chances, first loves.
I love you and I love nothing.
Ballad of Dead Leaves
My sleep is fevered and intense.
I awake to the sound of my own voice,
and I fear I must have been calling out your name.
I dress in the dark and leave the house in silence.
The walk is cold and lonely.
The leaves have all blown away,
leaving behind little indentations,
like cloven hoofprints in the earth.
I draw myself in, against the wind,
against the cold, against the deepening night.
I awake to the sound of my own voice,
and I fear I must have been calling out your name.
I dress in the dark and leave the house in silence.
The walk is cold and lonely.
The leaves have all blown away,
leaving behind little indentations,
like cloven hoofprints in the earth.
I draw myself in, against the wind,
against the cold, against the deepening night.
Infinity
written for, and edited by, Anthony Weir
Our lives,
by all accounts,
are just teardrops
in unending seas.
Our lives,
by all accounts,
are just teardrops
in unending seas.
An Apology
A mirthless smile.
A bitter laugh.
A return to form, if not to function.
An ironic expression.
An iconic suggestion.
A well-rehearsed round of goodbyes.
And I apologize, my dear, that this mirthless smile is all I've left to give.
A bitter laugh.
A return to form, if not to function.
An ironic expression.
An iconic suggestion.
A well-rehearsed round of goodbyes.
And I apologize, my dear, that this mirthless smile is all I've left to give.
Geology
written for, and edited by, Anthony Weir
Some days I have
difficulty
seeing beyond
my own eyelids.
The whole of reality is a
blurred mass
of indistinguishable circumstance.
All things are one
with my isolation.
I want,
not a fresh start -
but a severance.
An uncompromising
disconnection.
An
unfettering.
To be left
alone.
Adrift in stone.
Some days I have
difficulty
seeing beyond
my own eyelids.
The whole of reality is a
blurred mass
of indistinguishable circumstance.
All things are one
with my isolation.
I want,
not a fresh start -
but a severance.
An uncompromising
disconnection.
An
unfettering.
To be left
alone.
Adrift in stone.
Nietzschean Tightrope
Taken out of context, a romantic act
can be treason, and love
the most selfish thing
in the world.
can be treason, and love
the most selfish thing
in the world.
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