The world is inherently ugly,

Dull as the thud of death

Muddled in everyday indifference –


The very reason poets

Look to the sky,

And madmen (like I)


Cannot stop

Scratching the surface,

Scarring parchment skin,


In hope of striking scarlet gold,

Buried away by leprechauns

With sorrows old.



Bleed now,

My dearest.


For the world depends

On the declotting

Of this sentiment.





Into the dark of woods
The morning sun peeks,
Sly as a myth.
Solemn trees are roused
By recklessness
Of footsteps on leaves.
The forest floor crumbles
Beneath scraggly feet
Of a girl purposely lost.

She treads the quiet trail
For answers don’t sit in crowds,
Nor does the boy
Who sings birdsongs of spring,
That only she can hear-
She and paradise flycatchers.

Feet scarlet as the ground beneath,
Toenails blue
As the cold timber fell,
She is the woods:
Pristine, rustling with life,
Lit with a blazing yellow.

O wanderer of the woods,
Sit by the lake blue and clear-
It shall tell you secrets; show you
The answers you seek
Lie within;
That if you sit still,
Very still,
They’ll find you.
Just like I.