Hush, hush
she susurrates her
sickly sweet spell
slowly, slowly
sliding and slipping
insidiously inside
saturating the silence
with the sound of her soul.
I cease to sense
the caress of bliss
as something seems to scream
confess, confess –
innocence is surface deep.


The End

She chews the words of their stale conversation,
Feeling the weight of them, heavy on her tongue.
It is a thick and clumsy thing
to speak when there is nothing left to say.
And as they reach goodbye,
she realizes sadly
this is the last one.


Jackboots crack on pavement top
echoes of wings in the undercurrent.
Dark, heavy silence
cut only by the flurried fists
which hover, dart, knock
in the night.
Flashes of color,
rank and status,
allow them to pretend awhile longer
that this could never happen
to them.
They laugh as they sip their sweet nectar
which tastes only faintly of fear, for now.
So hush, my little one.
They won’t come for us.


Your fingers seem longer, thinner
alive in their own right, as they crawl among the pill bottles.
For a moment, you feel like Alice:
labels are meaningless, but you’ve tried them all.
The tall green one will cause strange words to tumble
over and under and from your lips,
while this orange one brings dreamless sleep.
And as you mix yourself
a cocktail that rattles in your palm
you wonder –
how did she climb back out
the rabbit hole?


She stands, clutching her dress in her hands
naked and bare,
she inhales the scent of decay
and discovery
before the oak armoire.
The fabric feels old and worn under her fingers,
like a skin she has shed.
And that thought makes her smile.
Stepping out of her mourning clothes
and leaving them behind,
as a snake slithers from its scales.
She takes her time, folding the blackness.
She uses crisp corners and even lines to give order
to despair.
Then, she places it on a shelf
and quietly closes the door.
There is no rush to cover herself.
Naked and bare,
she stands, transformed.

Swan Song

I am dry.
Used up, spent and empty.
These words flow sharply,
In an unnatural staccato,
Impeded by pain and blinded by fatigue,
It seems there is no more to say.
Where once there were silken alliterations and gilded symbolism
Alive and verbose, there is silence.
Dusty, dark, and damning.
Used up, spent and empty.
I am dry.



It never seems to matter
how many times I say goodbye to you,
I am through, I am a fool to stay:
I have yet to let these words
leave my lips.
I hold them back as if they are a precious commodity.
To be traded and used
only when there is no other option.
And for now, I can be satisfied
with being less.
There is always tomorrow, so rich
with the promise of more.
Maybe I will tell you then.