the dreams have returned—tenebrousness lurking and shifting in my periphery, twisting corridors and labyrinths, viscous black waters. sunless woods where you and I met after eons of journeying separately and alone—how could I begin to tell you all that I had seen and felt and done, all that had been done to me, the shedding of vestiges and exoskeletons until devolution left behind this sibylline form you behold before you now—the stifling weight of iron ages, memories, frost on the panes. and this ancient anger with its Maslovian heritage—everything else that came before too easy, primordial, so we climbed to the top of the pyramid only to uncover this frightful, impossible anger. exhumed violence. severed lines, collapsed shapes, slashed geometry, sinister splinters spiderwebbing through the dread—I cannot sleep and I cannot wake—


Autumn to me
is not pumpkins and pies.
It is the warmth and comfort of an extra blanket,
brisk air deliciously filling up my lungs between smoke drags,
layer of muted calm in the early mornings and late nights
foreshadowing the stultification that winter will later bring.
I like the quiet but there is an element to it that also frightens me.
I like the cold but not the way it seeps into my heart,
the reunions and lightheartedness slowly solemnizing
as we prepare for the next act.
Soon after the firebird’s finale
we will return once more to ashes, dust, fear.