Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.
Carl Sandburg

Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows.
Edmund Burke


Standing near the edge,
Gazing into a chasm consumed by darkness,
Tears pervade the caverns of my heart,
For this is the only world I know.
Alone, embodied with fear,
Bemused upon this remote precipice
My screams echo deep into the night.
Severed from life,
No one hears.
No one searches.
Trembling, I fall to my knees
As reality rushes through me.
I am No One.
Tears of a lifetime swell in my eyes
And in a tumultuous outburst
Satiate the emptiness below.
Falling, falling, falling
Into a raging river of pain.
Swept away by its anger,
Tossed and torn by jagged rocks,
Perishing in the torrid current,
Vanishing into obscureness,
Always and forever,
No One.



I hate the day, I hate the night.
I hate it when I still have sight.

I hate to run, I hate to walk.
I hate it when I still can talk.

I hate to wake, I hate to sleep.
I hate it when I still can weep.

I hate the sun, I hate the moon.
To end it now won’t be too soon.

I hate the grass, I hate the sea.
Please tell me what is wrong with me.



The days and nights pass in an unending cycle,
As the world spins in its orderly, methodical way.

But with each revolution, chaos looms heavily in the soul.
The mind spins out of control
Taking flight from what is known to exist.

Life is no longer a conscious reality or need.
Violent eruptions hurl it aimlessly into the darkness,
Giving birth to a shooting star.

In the realm of time it is merely
A fleeting moment of immolated beauty,
Controlled by an unyielding destiny—
A path of certain demise.

Falling irreparably through the black void of space,
Wiled toward forces that will extinguish its illumination,
It finally disintegrates into nothingness,
Consummating a long, lonely journey.

As time weaves its spell,
All becomes a vague distant memory
In the thoughts of those who viewed its passage.

And the days and nights pass, in the same unending cycle.



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