Morning drifts through the 
branches like golden sand
weaves through nimble 

This fleeting warmth that 
seems to coarse through in
careful vibrations only when
I’m awake.

A momentary shadow dims
my peripheral, the clever caw
of an acquaintance in balance
and tranquility. 

The crow perches on the 
highest branch, charcoal eyes
and ashen feathers poised 
in contrast. 

We stare for an eternities worth,
in stark silence of the world’s
most hidden brilliance, and I 

Not on the meaning, not on any
perceived omen, but on what
could be ruling his existential
plain as well. 

I wonder if he’s any idea how
necessary his presence is to the
light, or if he sunbathes in the
fool’s spectrum. 

The sun does not fear him no
more than he understands it,
but they exist harmoniously,

He tilts his head, as I do mine,
I realize he likely comprehends
this far better than any of us
could ever hope. 

And when I blink, he has gone.

– B. 


Silent are the weeping willows 
this time of year,
Bending to the weight of rainfall 
or hooded ornaments. 
Branches splintering off into 
dissolutions of a holiday,
The party goes on, I’m sure 
that’s what they’ll all say. 

Though a chair is left empty at 
the setting this year,
A carcass carved through by the
wings and gutted up
the belly of an indulgent beast. 
They spread the greed like butter,
while I mull over wine. 

A hollow setting masques a fair 
weather merriment,
A soiled bride and a groom whom 
finds solace in the mirror. 
Debauchery can eventually become 
truth when
you glance off into the void and allow 
its whispers to warp reality. 

But awareness has always shaken my
shoulders or spat in my face. 
I stare at a fire crackling in the depths 
of an hour too dark,
Swiping the phlegm and postulated 
insincerity from my face. 
And I know that I may be alone, but I 
am less lonely than I am
At the table of forlorn regrets, death 
and unfamilial-arity. 

– B. 


I have never heard the 
rap-tap-tapping on my 
chamber door, whether it 
be from a raven or likewise,

I have never hidden the raised
tissue whitened in the hailing
of all my battles forlorn,
or my inability to feel much 
without the taste of bait and lure. 

Luna refused to mother
the shepherds whore,
though a disposition like 
mine has proven difficult
to ignore, perhaps only to

She is not a mother,
I am not a mother.

She is but a guide and I am 
buying into the excess time 
I have wretchedly torn from 
Pandora’s own hands, the 
femme fatal’s box of wisdom 
for all who sneer and plan. 

Exposing a pale neck to the 
reality of your own twisted
perils tends to soothe the void 
come a blistering winter,
or the night he was deployed. 

I am not a mother,
but she isn’t either.

A divine retribution, if you will. 
In silence of my screaming lambs,
I linger, between the confines
of those chamber doors. 

I hear everything, every whisper,
every echo of a pin hit the floor,
but never the rapping or tapping 
of my long lost Lenore. 

– B. 


A venus fly trap can only
consume a prey of its size. 

You have quickly learned
that I was merely a finger 
that allowed you to hold
on longer than planned. 

There was never any 
sustenance you could pull
from my nitrogen. 

– B. 


I am bored stiff as a 
placement of bone on
careful wiring at the 
museum crime scene. 

This is what happens 
when rigor-mortis sets 
and my daydreams fall
to atrophy. 

Veins will shrivel into
tightly wound coils
that no amount of
preservative could

Spindly fingers freeze
into permanent claws,
heart bathing in a jar
of formaldehyde. 

– B. 

Black Blood

You let the ink drip onto
the page like a nosebleed
cascading down your chin
or a needle tapped into the
soft spot of your forearm. 

A bit of bloodletting to rid
of the tar building up in
your veins or the memory
darkening to cancer in 
the depths of your brain. 

Your readers are like leeches,
you won’t feel the sting of soft 
rings, where the teeth sink into 
the flesh of your vulnerability;
but you’ll know you contributed 
to filling the belly of a void when 
the relief of your own passes 
by like a dawn of new age.  

– B. 


They say you’ll fight for
what you want but it seems
like your army is not on my side.

You have made no efforts
to protect me or your future,
and I will not live in the repeat
timeline of your past and ache
over my lack thereof. 

I reside in the future.
Those who can’t stand up for
that choose to linger in the
poison of their past. 

– B.