She is not a Rose

Neither rose

Petal or bud

Can be

As she –

The woman

Of the water

Who levels

Out the unbearable


With a

Tranquil moment



In Bones We Trust

In this ancient

Ruin we trust

In this relic

Of an age not

Ours –

Where shining men

Hid behind doors

And ruled



Who could not


Or take flight


Hamlet’s plight


The age is past,

But the seeping

Sinister spirit


To fester

To the bone.

Pedlars Of Perfection

Superficial souls

Vain sellers of

Artificial perfection

And critics of nature

Have planted toxic roots

Which have grown under

Skin not theirs

Which like bamboo

Under nails

Have bled

Out dying hope

And hollowed the heart

Made it cry

Tears that will not cease

Until all that is left

Is the mirror

That shows

Brittle bones

Standing in flesh

Where mind

Has deformed

And forced


As the norm

Upon beauty;

Calling it ugly

In the ubiquitous lie

Protected and promoted

By society’s hell.

Disjointed Truth

My perception is disjointed,
What I see is the unseen,
And what I don’t see is your reality.
One is real, one is false, an illusion from a sick mind.
From an outsiders view though,
Both are false, embezzlement of the truth.
The unanswered and unasked question,
Hangs frozen in suspenseful cold fog-like breathe,

What is truth?