Eyes behind which circle many thoughts like wolves - unearthed in harsh dissonance to bitter cry of broken being; thoughts - prowling behind bleeding stares at soft stars - that bruise the cynical darkness. The scarred are the strongest fighters.

Wist in the Dark

Spinning spheres of hollowness, drifting ghosts of neon-washed, white-faced, candle-lit beauties; one hand hesitating, drawing back, from the gentle light; what we long for, we shun, clutching the black with the other. Ach, would that each saw the picture. Sometimes, one only seems to grasp sharp-edged puzzle pieces.

Dear Beyond-Me

Dear depression, I wish you could see the view from here. It's not so high as it is grand, because, broken mortal that I am, I have not reached the top. It's quite stunning, in a calming, relieving, beautiful way, on the other side of the valley. You hate me, I know, for in some [...]

How Fyre Burns

Is fyre truly, always, orange, amber, red, furious? We think it can only smoulder and rage and roar. We think one can only be seared by its pain. What if, perhaps, I have been burned - am being burned alive - but I am, slowly, ever slowly, beginning to see that the fyre, sometimes, wears [...]