Ancient notes hum once again –
Echoes through the deep,
Deathknell to forgotten friends,
Ode to my defeat.

I cannot remember when
I last shut my eye
Without dreaming of the end
I witness tonight.

They breathe around my gasping throat,
Mocking misery,
Whispering the pain I wrote –
The chains that bind me.

They drag my cadaver afloat
With a joyous clink;
Sweeter than the hearts I broke
Is the poison that I drink.

Tragedies don’t feel the same
Since my smile’s been sold,
For he, who is one with the flame
…Has never felt so cold.

Thought I’d fallen deep enough
Into the scarlet sea,
But there she spoke, she called my bluff –
The chains that bind me.

Vengeful are the ancient notes –
Echoes of my fear,
Whispering the pain I wrote
Back into my ear.

Rusted are my dying arts
In the scarlet sea;
Though vile and grimy, they are
The chains that bind me.

The drowning notes now wail among
The waning briny kelp,
Yet, this time, it’s no love song –
…It’s a cry for help.

“Nothing Speaks”

An incoherent mess that somehow made enough sense to me to decide to post it.


“Nothing Speaks”

Speak to me, my nothingess –
What have we become?
Nothing stands, for nothing is
Like when we’d begun.

Scream into my ear, I pray,
Take me unaware.
To everything I fear I say,
Eat my heart laid bare.

I beg for only but a whisper,
To disturb the sand,
The silent suffering of winter –
The nothing that I am.

Just a breath, my nothingness,
A voice to call my own…
Nothing speaks, for nothing is;
And I stand alone.


I wanted to write something a bit different in terms of setting. I had a story for this tucked somewhere inside my head but I could only draw out this static imagery.

Let me know what you think!


I smell the freshly-sated rain
Gasp on the cold concrete floor,
Which in puddles does retain
Velvet stains of Eleanor.

Feint street-lights reveal the play
With a warmth no longer felt;
Actors have no words to say
Of the dreams that have been dreamt.

Wide eyes tell of seconds past
With an expression bizarre;
I smell the seeping seething rust
Inside of the velvet car.

Tremors of a fragile breeze
Whisper softly in my ear;
Shaking are my feeble knees
At the silence that I hear.

There I stand beside her car,
Under feint street-lights eclipsed,
Velvet painted on my heart,
Velvet on my trembling lips.

The rain again begins to pour,
Dripping down the vapid sight
With velvet stains of Eleanor
Smothering the fading lights.

Good night, Velvet Eleanor…
…Good night.

“Quill and Seal”

This piece makes references to some of the most valuable sources of inspiration I have been fortunate to rely upon in the past year or so. Not my proudest work, but something that has been trying to claw itself out of my head for a few days, maybe weeks.


“Quill and Seal”

In the comfort of my hearth
Seven circles I have found,
One for each of my black hearts
Shackled under heavy crowns.

Circles of my own volition
I have carved upon my canvas –
Monuments of my ambition
Born of the most lucid stardust.

I have traveled countless minds,
Many dreamscapes I have wandered;
I awoke only to find
They’ve been calling me a monster

I wanted to tear down the sky
And bring the laughter to an end;
But before my bloodshot eye
Was a shadow of a friend.

I wanted to become my fear,
To subdue and to offend;
But thundering inside my ear
Were the whispers of a friend;

And my rivers graced no more
The venom that my hearts could foster –
Sometimes I crave the raging war,
Sometimes I wish I was a monster…

A warrior of quill and seal
And all of my circles smitten –
I am but everything I feel
And I feel all I’ve ever written.



This piece simply describes that curious feeling of having a reason to wake up in the morning. Lately, my reason has developed a name; and a face; and an overall human shape.

Do enjoy and let me know what you think!


Naked in the morning light,
He stares blandly through the bricks
Choking innocence with sight
Snuffed under the marching ticks.

Naked in the morning light
With which silence has been wed,
He sits paralysed with fright
At the far edge of his bed.

Every day begins the same;
He has grown to hate to turn
Pages in books without name,
Pages he wishes to burn.

Naked in the morning light,
He sits just as evermore
On the altar of the night,
Behind large wide-open doors,

Wishing he could sit no more,
Cursing to the gleaming skies,
Naked as the world’s last whore,
Wishing he could close his eyes…

‘Nother dawn bares its long claws,
Piercing every brick and tile
And with seemingly no cause,
He awakens… with a smile.

Naked in the morning light –
This day cannot be the same –
On the pages of his mind,
Sribbled, he has found a name!

To the altar of the night
He turns his vindictive glower
And naked in the morning light,
He stands to meet each blessed hour.

“Dark Respite”

This is just something I’ve been mentally preparing to write for a few weeks. Wrote it as soon as I found the right words. Your feedback is highly appreciated!


“Dark Respite”

Long have I disdained the faces
Wreathing the walls of my brain,
Echoing from long-lost places,
Mocking my unholy name.

Cold the tremors of my touch
Have become over the years,
Cold to all pleasentries such
As uncertainty or fear.

Everyday I learn to smile,
Mentored by my memory;
Alas, eternity, defiled –
Cold eternal revery.

Neither muse, nor dark surprise
Takes root from under my hide.
The sun falls so stars may rise –
It’s not the first time that I’ve died.

I lament my empty throne,
…For my muse…my dark surprise…
For I’m no longer alone
When I close my bloodshot eyes.

“The Toymaker”

This idea came to me just as I was heading to sleep. It is not a mirroring of personal feelings, but rather, my perspective on the story of someone very close to me.

Let me know what you think!

“The Toymaker”

Eleven in the dismal night,
Maybe half an hour more –
There still shines a feeble light
In the old toymaker’s store;

And the windows of his home
Pour out the candle’s lament,
Crawling under dreary dome
Onto cold and dark cement.

Tinkering, he toils, this man
Behind doors thoroughly locked;
Tinkering, he boils, he plans
To the ticking of the clock.

He makes dolls, puppets and masks,
Never carving them their eyes;
And unto patrons who ask,
Selling stitched and fraying lies,

The tragedy of long goodbyes…

Candle wax drips on the floor,
Crumbling under shaking soles;
Windows glow dimly no more
In the silent dream made whole,

For no hands now hold the cross
Of puppets leaving the shelf.
The toymaker is at a loss –
Woe unto his fearful self!

Faces hung on melting walls
Spring deranged demonic grins;
Maddened by the gruesome calls,
He looks now unto his sins.

And the dolls his eyes now crave –
Woe unto his sightless self!
Be strong, my friends, and be brave –
The clock chimes for hour twelve.