Thirty-four poems from the margins of night,
where madness speaks and truth is strange.
I — Featured
I dreamed a dream within a dream.
To see all that I couldn't see.
And didn't wake but woke once more.
Just to see behind closed doors.
And in my head, I saw their minds.
But only mine throughout all time.
Center here and center there.
iud jueytsjdhe jdlokhgfyuhrhusk.
iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskfk
pweiud jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskf fjh
II — Featured
Dreams lie rotting in the corners of my mind,
their nails clicking in the shadows.
Grim caretakers of rent free desolation.
My soul has gone missing, yet the pain stays…
an uninvited guest eating stray hope.
You can't fall from the floor.
iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhusaf iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskf .
iud jueytsjdhe jdiusswwbvbbvd jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskf hrhuskf .
— excerpt
III — Featured
If we rest, let us rest as embers,
smoldering with intense heat, burning our surroundings.
Let them look upon us in fear,
scorched earth in all directions.
If we stand, let us stand like the mountains,
towering over our enemies.
A constant display of steadfast power,
whose ground never gives unless to bury.
pweiud jueytsjdhe jdhrhwuskf fjdh ehrdaa.
qlopweiud jueytsjdhe jdhrhwuskf fjdh ehr.
IV — Featured
Ten Little Politicians, taxing what is mine,
One took too much, and then there were nine.
Nine Little Politicians trying to control our fate,
One got too personal, and then there were eight.
Eight Little Politicians claiming to know heaven,
One got pulled below, and then there were seven.
Seven Little Politicians lying just for kicks,
iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskf iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskf.
— excerpt
V — Featured
Madness is me,
and everything I want to see,
and everything thing I want to be,
wearing my mask eternally.
Through the night I walk,
and to the shadows I talk,
and to the ravens I squawk,
entertaining dark thoughts.
iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhu,
iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskf .
VI — Featured
I stepped into the clock today,
and It carried me away.
Through corridors of what-has-been,
and the streets of yesterday.
Then met myself upon the road,
and warned him not to go,
yet still he went, as I had done,
iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskf.
iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskf.
— excerpt
VII — Featured
A fool is made with little care,
for a fools crown is light to wear.
His lies sing and his tongue runs wild,
like an angry spoiled child.
A fool requires no sharpened art,
no class, no wit, no original thought.
Full of pride and selfish needs,
never satisfied and never pleased.
iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskf iud jueytsjdhe j,
iud jueytsjdhe jdhrhuskf iud jueytsjdhe j.
A man sat alone, late at night, pondering words.
Which to use, where to place them, and how to stir the soul.
At times, the words arranged themselves,
slipping onto the page while his mind chased the next thought.
Still, he wrote, for the silent room pressed heavily on his mind,
and the infinite had many unanswered questions.
He wrote to the soft sounds that others missed.
He wrote to the skeletons in the closet.
He wrote to fairy tales and folklore.
He wrote to the darkness and all that it hides for his sake.
He pondered words to fill empty pages,
and wondered if they built a bridge or a cage,
whether they freed him from the weight of silence,
or chained him far from much needed sleep.
For the pages are an expression of self,
and are bound by soul and blood.
In battle between the heart and the mind,
with only a frail man to burn between them.
So a man sat alone… late at night… no sleep in site.
Burning in the passion of dark words desire.
Sharing his soul and his blood with paper and pen,
because his thoughts pressed heavily on his mind.
Thirty-four verses from the uncommon dark