Cold hands of Chaos

Where does one go
when the red blood of life, of love,
turns to the blue blood of hate.

The cold, dead, hands of Chaos
ripping away my mind,
fracturing my peace.

No longer teathered to sanity,
adrift in the miasma.

Who am I?
Who are you?
What are we?

Endless questions
spinning through the mental chasm.
Seeking,
always seeking,
never satisfied.

Do I deserve contentment?
Do I have anything to offer in return?

The cold, dead, hands of Chaos
gripping my throat,
choking my cries,
silencing my anguish.

The blue blood of hate
consuming my heart.

Where do I turn?
Who can help?

A voice of reason in the darkness...

"Go away!" Screams the Chaos.
"You have no place here!"

Blood is thicker than Water

Little drops of life slowly trickle
down the surface of a barren landscape.
From whence do they issue forth?
Who can say?

I know not why they march on,
nor why they refuse to cease their journey.
Is it of great importance?
Who can say?

Straight backed, blank faced and stoic,
they seem possessed by a surety of purpose.
Do I envy them?
Who can say?

The little drops join a great torrent
and flow forward with a cry of gleeful rage.
Should I mourn them?
Who can say?

The Void

A chasm of nothingness.
It fills you like cold, inky, waters,
penetrating the very depths of your consciousness
till no trace of humanity remains.
You are a mere corporeal form,
never engaging with the world that surrounds you.
Disengaged, detached and distant.
Swallowed by endless, spiraling introspection.
The more you struggle and rage against it,
the more it draws you in; like quick sand for the mind.
A black hole that envelopes, not only you,
but all bodies that surround you.
Sucking the life out of everything
and slowing time to an unbearable crawl.
From whence does this void originate?
What was the genesis of its' being?
From a small seed of self doubt, or rather, self loathing
a large, gaping, darkness can be born.
Like all seeds, it only grows with nourishment,
to deny it sustenance is to win the fine fight,
but, how can we do this when this world seems intent on feeding it?
Feeding it in abundance.

Bleak - A Haiku

Black plague of torment
Unrequited love does burn
Swift death must follow

The Walk Home

Walking lonely late at night,
dark and stormy; no more light.
Lightning flashes, thunder booms,
waking sleepers in their tombs.

Keeping silent on the street,
cold and foggy; can't see feet.
Rain is pounding, gales blow;
freezing dreamers' ethereal glow.

Hoping on a final prayer,
damp and clammy; almost there.
Pain is stabbing, vision blurred;
crying curses never heard.

Sitting idle, home at last,
warm and comfy; pain has past.
Mind is ticking, open thoughts,
recalling memories time distorts.

The Butterfly

Bitter waters rush over summers bleak and past,

but never can they cleanse the fetid streets of stench.

Now comes the winters' vulgar raging,

reminiscent of bloody battle, old, wasted and flailing.

In this tepid tempest of diffused musings, I stand

teased, tormented and battered by flaccid self-worth.

I pause, taking note of a small butterfly flitting and flapping
lighting on an upturned rubbish bin.
Its wings are sapphire its' body ruby.
The tiniest sliver of sun pierces through the cloud,
I see God, there but briefly, in this dazzling creature.
I reach out, longing to hold close this brittle beauty.
Alas, disturbed, it flitters and flaps to alight on another mans memory.
I am alone once more, but I will carry the butterfly with me always.