Wednesday, April 8, 2015


In sickness, revolution, and changeless death,
the world is on fire with a dying beauty.
Mortality, prostitution and ill fated breath:
my desperations, deep and old, fueling me.

Comfortably sad, coldly set within my head,
I look upon the finite with calculated conviction.
Incarcerated, walking green miles till dead,
my dreams' wings remain flights of bad fiction.

For hope has become so very dangerous, so rare,
experience has seen so many beloved stars fade.
Most nights Im too afraid to let myself care,
no eye contact, nothing to give, nothing to trade.

A scientist, able to quantify the weights upon me.
At once so small, so incapable of impossible flight.
Another mathematician of guilt ridden gravity,
on trial before a billion trillion burning lights.

But with that said...
I dont understand darling...
how I feel the way I feel.
How can I love again, care again, this strong?
My equations, my mind,
controls taken, variables defined,
failed to let me heal.

But you...
So gently, so carefully,
in morning kisses and evening song,
taught me that without miracles...
I was seeing everything... completely wrong.

You have taken me, heart in hand,
commanded me to trust again, to trust you.
And with fear of the man Ive been,
of the things he knew...Im listening.

For you are a numerical impossibility,
an angel of faith,
yet bounded by mortality.
Two universes of beauty,
coalesced at an unimaginable intersection,
telling me that my heart is safe.

That no matter the probability...
love may yet find me.


  1. I love the regular rhythm of this as well as the clever incorporation of mathematical terminology.

  2. Hope so dangerous so rare...yes a thing with feathers...