"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Forbidden the Aria

Heather,
The weather where I live is clouded
Yet brilliance can pour through
From where the light is mounted;

In my skies
Your eyes
Formless and ubiquitous
To wend my tempest
Render winds innocuous
A sidereal rime to rend the pall albedo again.

My nimbus changing face
Compares to grace
That a sunset of their closing
Admits the inclement fill of cracks
Puddles forming in absence
Of the sights compelling this place.

Rain will be incepted
Though I can gain the pleasure
Of a drying plane
Whilst her warmth returns to me again…

But being so tempted to brave this line
Separating me from all I find
The bridge keeper’s design,
Garish, it looms
Saturnine; croon unkind, speaks to me of a crime
The sparks from a clash of it’s blade and mine:
Gurthang, forged through privity and time
Sanguinary, reaping his cussed rhyme,
Awaiting a misstep to polish it’s runes within him,
A warlord we’ll give no name
Inside implied:
The keeper of shames
Shame, for to another belongs her name;
Your name: euphonic, recherche,
Of it I know what should be said
In my laconic way aver, attest
My own occlusion
Though I do not know what I can say to
Divert, reinvent history this way,
Towards the day wherein my dreams are not
Unrehearsed and doggerel play;

Though maybe if I could
I should write to you
Endlessly…
And in time words will twist,
Wind and then be gone;
Flash then douse with a gust of notes…

And in the mist we’d glean a song.

-June 10, 2002 – ?

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