Eating Dust.

I watch from the dust,

as another tour bus,

leaves trails of red lights,

a cruel form of “goodbye”,

full to its capacity,

with those left to humanity,

jam-packed inside,

while I’m left behind;

see me waving,

truly straining,

both bloody eyes open wide…

I step over fading hope,

toe to heel on the tightrope,

that unravels so fast,

with the weight of my mass,

disintegrating easily,

to remind me constantly,

there will be,

no turning back,

it doesn’t work like that;

see me stammer,

see me stumble down,

once again, against the sound,

of betrayal,

of the final nail,

neatly hammered,

once again, unbroken ground;

mouth full of road dust,

in the wake of,

for the sake of,

the retreating tour bus,

I gave up my place,

for this wasteland I love,

so much that I’ll never escape.








In randomly scattered moments
I can fool myself cruelly
through the tattered fragments
of a phantasmal memory
Abreast on a breeze of torment
I hear a quiet whispering
of an imaginary figment
a vague and ghostly thing
In the maddening confusion
I can make myself believe
through the comfortable illusion
that a child’s eyes perceive
Within such a warm delusion
I hear words never spoken to me
from the mouth of a fabrication
by the mom that you couldn’t be
In gradually growing resentment
I can hardly seem to breathe
through smoldering enchantment
my eyes still fight re-opening
for the sake of such abandonment
that represents the harsh reality.


I often wander out there in the graveyard,

like some spirit longing to escape from limbo,

pacing paths in the dirt between markers,

where I’ve buried too many beloved bones;


Every spirit belonging to every ghost,

even those bones turned to ash,

seem to grasp and reach from between,

a far-away future and most distant past;


the moon beams become enlightening,

through smears of the tears in my eyes,

the metallic taste of every drop of blood,

becomes a bile slowly starting to rise;


I wander out there through Eternity,

as the exiled daughter of some cruel God,

I wonder at heaven’s sheer insensitivity,

and at the end, can’t help but to applaud;


at the vastness surrounding such emptiness,

such an ice-cold touch of our creators’ hand,

the Dead have been warmed through the passing,

and the Living remain frozen in this wasteland.