An elemental,

Water to fire

Earth to air,

A witch,

A conduit of shapeshifting

From one extreme,

To none.

From being,

To absense.

A convergence of energy,

In the tangle of her spine,

Desire whisping out

like smoke of incense.

She lays limp

Her soul vibrating

Her body calm

Her energy a storm.

Why they try to contain a god

In human form

Her body fades so fast

But she is adorn

In all the earth

She was never human

For what humans are for


She tittered,

The world was slipping away.

Her breath was like a storm

All captured in a cage

I will keep you

Her anxiety raged

I will keep her!

But she sighed the pain

“I cannot be kept”

And like an Anemoi

She responded

On the wind she fades

Almond oil, a process.

He presses me to be soft.

Crushing my hard shell,

into a fine oil.

One that soothes,

Gives vitality to even the harshest flesh.

He does this,

Like a sigh.

As if to say,

you love so hard,

And loving is easy.

Always easy, so it can flow through the hardest moments undaunted,

And soft.

A hard shell can protect you,

But being as an oil,

You’ll penetrate below a surface,

That once limited you.

You’ll fuze with the ones you love,

At the center,

Where it’s tender.


I’m aware of my morality

Of the fragility

That is unraveling

Before me.


Is life a pendulum

Of deliberate choices?


We all have the chance to choose right

And yet do we all have the determination of character?


What makes up the catalyst by which our lives are defined?


And what if, where upon we find that definite period at the end of our stories, at that precipice, we find the syncronicities in all the irrelevance?


Yes, our choices don’t matter, but the fact that we decided to choose at all defines us.

In indefinency

We did not stand idle by fate.

But held hands along side of it.


We were the companions of our presence.

Witnesses to our actions.

Our own host.




And though ultimately the definitions, choices , the sequences of what we can inadequately perceive as existence, don’t matter, it is significant to the consciousness that belongs to us, that we observe.

That we collect.

That we continue.


We had a purpose before we came here.

Our lives belong to us all, to share.


There is nothing we don’t know.


That we don’t see.


That we won’t remember.


Nothing that we can evade.


And yet, it is ultimately our bodies experience of our existence that decides our death.

We are only conscious to witness.


And witness we will.


In marvel we shall ascend

Into the experience of the end

As nothing but a beginning

That can not be fathomed in the physical

But not all things experienced

Are corporeal.


The body can not always rationalize that which all it witnesses, of energy.


And so death is the end of all corporeal experience, yet the beginning of all that lies beyond it.

It is in our physical forms nature to fear what it doesn’t understand, to survive.


Yet our souls, our intellects, crave more than what physical form can provide.


And so when purpose has been out lived, we move onward.

There is more we must witness.


More that is to be explored.


And so death and life are two world’s in one consciousness.


Two meaningless limitations of perception.


Yet there is value in the preciousness we provide for them.


For without their illusions we would not press to be.

And the womb of compassionate silence would cease to be.

That quiet companion would dissolve.

And in extension so would we.


Embrace the inevitable but realize it’s your nature in this existence to resist it.




Taking in these particles of you,

That catch in

my chest like dust,

Such the pollen of flora,

That I choke on like allergies and asthma.

You invade my senses,

Swell my insides,

Steal my breath away like fauna dander,

With you I’ll need my inhaler.


Still I adore you,

And I must as ever implore you,

Be gentler, so that I may be gentler,

You are tough, loving your women rough,

You worship my sharp edges,

And forget these parts of me that are tender,

These finer parts that I must now engage in surrender.

I can’t bully what I can’t fix,

Can’t force air between the pollen,

I inhale you like another hit,

Hoping I’m not allergic.


-You treat me like I’m dramatic,

But surely you must know I’m asthmatic?





He filled me with love,

Then silence,

Then love again.
I didn’t set it against him,

His coolness was not mine

Only warmth, all the time
He would withdraw

Deep and alone

His musings were not my own
Then suddenly just as he left

I’d find him beside me again

Either joyful or bereft
I would wait 

Where patience wins

And give all my love to him
Whenever he needed

Whenever deserved

Til had he his full, serviced
Only then would I stir

And only ever to get closer