I step. And I fall. I turn. And I miss. I sleep. And I wake. I wake. And I sleep. I dream and dreams become not reality. I walk forever and ever on and reach the highest and farthest peaks and gaze down upon a world so far below, so far away, forever distant and lost to time and distance too vast to dare return, and there beneath me stands a place that I should call a home and yet to me is nothing but memory. And memory unpleasant…

Eyes watch me that were not yours, and I look back to see your soul: the you that never was. I speak to you and hear you answer, meaning clear as summer sun. Unspoken words echoing about within my mismatched mind. It is you, I am sure, no word of any other. Who else could be so clear? Who other’s gaze could pierce so deep and speak so much without need for sound be made…

What is it in your eyes that brings mine to tears? What is it that you see that ignites in you your fears? Do you see in me a vision? Is it a vision of you? Do you see a future so terrible, something that must never come true? When I look into your eyes I see only myself. I see the reflection of a man with a tear on his cheek. I see a man who tried his best only to succumb to being weak. And you look into my eyes. I see that in my reflection. I see a face across that demands my full attention…

Around me circles planet earth, the sun about the stars. Oceans surround me, forests encompass me, cities encase me, people imprison me. The light of day is not enough, who trickles between bars. Nor the stars at night so never near. Hope is what calls me, purpose eludes me, meaning deceives me. Yet I look up…

A window watches over me, the eyes in my reflection. I see in them a picture, a world of imperfection. I wonder who would watch me over. Who would look into my eyes? Other eyes without windows would turn away from mine. What reaches that I make would reach into wall. What reaches from a face, I would cower ever far.

What reflections do I see, when gazing not into a mirror? Eyes staring back at me, reflections not of stars. Crowns of many colors, regal they may be. Gemstones hued like rainbows, soul imbued in stone. And in their shining glory: all but my reflection…

What matters more, the source or light, when shone through darkness vast? For if the brightest light that shines is but a star so far away, then how could I so come to know what brings to me my life? And if the dark is lit by fire, be it candle small, then what does matter, wick or flame, to know this source of light?

Distance matters not to me, nor how does shine the light. What it is that I do seek is that which I might know. But as surely as a lantern’s light falls victim to the wind, so too do stars that shine at night vanish to the day. When shines a light so bright to see, what meaning holds a candle? A windy day needs not a lantern, nor the sun a wick…

Who are you, there, who hides behind a crown? Is your value in your gemstones that shine so ever green? But that you wear a crown tells me who you are. You are valued by others who watch from afar.

But it is not a glinting stone that reveals to me a heart unshone. For crowned in yellow, you might be, no royal garb can make you seen. So who are you, behind the crown? Who stands so high above us all that growing close should make us fall? Who rests upon a gilded throne and rules with fists of iron…

Stones turn soft when stepped upon, grass turns brown when gazed upon. The sun shines light, but not to see. What comes in light is simply known, and none are known better than those who know not.

What is held in my mind holds in the world. To gain a grasp is to turn to stone. Let me not think much of you. Flee you from the sun. Let fires not rage in your heart lest light should shine on those around and flames lick wounds long closed to time…

Words chase me with wicked wills. They call out from empty space. They beg me to write them. They long to be heard. But these words are wicked. I will them away.

So long as there's paper, their names shall be called. They tell me what to write. I don't want to listen. I have a will, and I will that I write. But when I read what I have written, it is the work of other words.

Double meaning deep within. Lines between the words. What I write will matter not. They fill the empty space. They seep into the cracks. They poison my work. They promise false perfection. They seep into my mind…

Gods weep not for mortal men. For gods know no men are mortal. Yet when mortality faces men, men weep for those who are mortal. But I am not the one in flesh. Nor men that yet lay still. Who we are is all we're not. And we are not of flesh.

Be this world through human lens, I am I who sees. Be these thoughts in human tongue, I am I who thinks. I am I who sits behind. I am I who feels. The time that passes is but my expression. For I cannot be without time…

Dark rooms offer little solace. Lights reflect from distant life. Windows flicker towards the world. Shadows dance upon the walls. So too does cold seep in. The world outside presses in. But not with its presence. It presses with its absence. That the darkest light might light a room. That the coldest wind might warm the air.

But the faintest light is like the sun. Who catches all so unprepared. Who burns the skin of those below. Dancing shadows dance in silence. Their eyes alight with fire. The room might burn to the ground. Yet the walls stay ever standing. They dance the dance of death. In their splendid display of delight. The smoke invites only tears…

I take a hand within my hand. I step within a step. I turn with a turn, and I hold with a hold. But I know not the truth. To reach my hand and take a step would be to turn from what I hold. And I hold what is but a lie.

What is true, and what is not? What is new, and what is lost? That my actions be without subject? For the hand I held was but my own. My step in the wrong direction. I turned to see what I had missed, that my hold was but too weak…

Why does the wind blow fickle air? That time is but a change of wind? Where goes my heart when thrown aloft? Where goes my spirit when fallen over? As surely as my breath might unlight a flame, so too does the wind grow my fire within.

Nowhere is there where there is no air. I cannot hide from time. And so in terror I do cower. At what might come in time. My heart would rather take its flight. My mind would rather take scatter…

What once was beautiful is beautiful no more. For when all is beautiful, what is there left to be? All was once terrible and so I was blinded. Darkness surrounded and clouded my sight. But when it cleared, I saw true. The world around was a beautiful view.

And so came awe at all I found. Beauty in everything even unprofound. But all was beautiful. And there was beauty no more. For what stands above the rest when all rests on even ground…

My dearest idea, what image shall you take? This day or the next, who might you choose to be? Shall you take the form of distant past? Shall you haunt me with the future? Will your form be but words whispered? Will your shape become that of the shadows?

My idea, I cannot live without you. You are my hope for tomorrow and my fear for the past. Why be not kind to me? Why cause me to suffer? Are we not one and the same? Am I not you? Are you not me? Without each other, who would we be…