I ruined a bitter poem by adding some sweet. Not my fault. I love someone again. Hard to stay bitter in the presence of a beauty.
  1. My favorite time is at night. When the air seems low to the earth, risen up, and the stars seem that much closer to be grasped in the hands, my hands, of desperate men gasping fitfully, as though drowning, for a moments divine intervention up and over their shattered lives.
  2. Lives that pool as broken glass over a sputtering flame does. Melting, molting, changing, evolving. Until that once reflected is refracted and vice versa. Until the man in the mirror is no more than a bloody, dribbled, mess on the bathroom floor. Crying silently for time's blessedly soft touch to his aching distorted cheek.
  3. And in the night one can hear the angels howl, a solid sound, in the unending painful bodies of a cosmic disaster. A universe filled to the brim with the screams of the oh so silent masses. Those with love in their eyes and deep scars in their hearts. Broken shells beating brilliantly like the tolling of an ancient bell. Basking in a rich insanity.
  4. Deep and velvety as the night but oh so much more suffocating. Yet fulfilling as the moonlight is caring. This insanity is a lovely, sacred, imperfect place. The knife edge we balance on dividing us from the innocent horde and the dead. Here in my pit of black I can attest gravely to the wonder that is my night. To the bittersweet love in my center
  5. I'm an addict of a higher order. The blood pooling in my veins, staining the whites of my eyes rosy, is that same blood which runs rapidly to my partners heart. I bleed gratefully, metaphysically, symbolically for her. And for all of those who I might later save, am saving now, with my treacherous studies to human kind's internal suffering.
  6. Perhaps in some perpetual divination I am a suitor for life's grandest and most tempestuous challenges. Perhaps we all are. Individually bearing the shattered epochal fragments of our respective lives as the earth bears the birth of humanity and it's bitter growth. Those resolved to quietly burn through these callous moments and stinging memories.
  7. Time moving as a dream does over the tired gaze of a midnight wonderer. Enthralling as it is tender to these broken down bones and ever tenuous mental acuities. I inhale deeply a sweeter air than resides on even the most fantastical Himalayan architects imaginings. Fragrant with the love of a distantly near partner. She who sings for me as air does
  8. Moving swiftly with the sunlight. Burning brightly in a flurry of contemporary but as of yet visionary dilutions. Her body a vessel for the Angels wings burst fervently in the sparkle of her eyes. The breeze in her hair a notion of so much more driven deep in the mind of what illusory beauty I can only bear to describe lingually.
  9. It is the way she reminds me of childhood. Of that great distant remedy to all of life's horrors. An innocence and divinity not unlike that of graceful youth. Rambunctious spirit. Willful love of the happier thoughts. As she drinks in warm light, I drown on bitter storms. Both reside within us and she brings out the better in me. Remaining here.
  10. In my heart of hearts. How jovial am I to realize that not all love is bittersweet. This love is pure. And floats like sunlight on a winter morning past my coldest parts and into my eyes. Glowing golden with visions of her smile and the lilt of her laugh on my ears. Ah what it tastes of to be happy again.
  11. At least for a moment.