Mayhap, it’s because the nights
get inundated with a deafening lull
that demands you to recall
the fleeting instances filled with joy–
those moments spent together,
when we were naively young
and utterly consumed
by the wondrous symbiosis of you and I.
The present world is so cold
that naught else gets to reflect
those precious memories of old;
you aren’t here with me
and nothing has meaning anymore.


“Black Hole”

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do you really think i own
the dreary, wary fawn?
for anything, that came along,
has never stayed so long.

dry the tears of pain;
for tiredness has been made plain.
no further interest in dealing
with anything that belongs to living.

don’t even try to understand
this clustered verses that seem grand.
no deep definition.
no need for attention.
no gathered souls to mention.

a nefarious grasping hole,
construed with some sticky cloistered mold.
the suffered pain is maintained;
owning everything it’s ever opened.