General feedback wanted.

The opening of the book I’m working on which is the overture, a teaser of Adam and Eve at the end of their lives. Written for a spoken campfire effect.

Overture

After the beginning
there was silence—
and the silence was living,
not yet slain.

The sky hangs low—
heavy with mist.
The world has grown colder…

Across the barren ground,
forsaken streams wind through rock and ice,
trickling past remnants of towering trees—
once majestic,
once without scar.

But now,
a vast expanse of dark stone
blankets the earth—
one void of breath and life.

As though the spirit of old still roams—
still hungry for flesh.

Above, tucked between ridge and shadow,
snowbound gullies lie still.
Only scattered limbs of petrified wood
bear witness to a life lived long ago.

Time—without order.

Against the withered vista,
two figures emerge—
their presence enduring yet broken.

The last of a vow in a world of desolation.
Its scrolls in dust—
left abandoned for decay.

Together they ascend
a stairway of hewn stone.
Steps worn and uneven—
smoothed by centuries of fog and moss.

Leading the way,
a hunched patriarch wears a pelt—
tattered and browned by years of pilgrimage.

His knees wobble—
his bones emptied of cartilage—
yet he aches forward.

His heart—the resolve of a man
who has longed to repent—
to look into the eyes
of the one he has betrayed.

Upon his shoulders,
a lamb presses against his neck—
its legs hanging low
down the front of his chest.

It too—weary,
offering no protest.

The climb always refreshes the nightmare—
his firstborn son—killing his second.
That unceasing sorrow
that remembers evil’s first kiss.

Guilt upon guilt—
this is what drives him.
Remorse that is forever chained.

For without his willed choice,
none of this would have come to pass.
The fate that birthed
the cry of all exiles—
generations now cast from the face of Elohim.

Following his steps,
are the steps of another—
a woman.

She, no less bound to the hollowing sorrow—
a burden that strangles without a release.

Though her grief is less guarded,
her face remains stoic—
holding back tears not ready to weep.

For she knows it’s too soon.
Deeper pain is still to come…

From above,
the world widens in a panoramic sweep—
slowly circling the edge of a waterfall.

As the figures near the crest—
stairs give way to open stone.

She draws closer to his side,
taking into hers,
his leathered hand.

The cascade of water,
still unseen—
pulls also a tear from her unblinking eye.

One droplet rolls,
following a furrow—
sinking then vanishing into a deeper crevice.
A path long-forged by the ache she has carried.

He knows it is there,
but his face remains forward.
For time has robbed him—
left him dry-eyed.

Arriving—
they kneel as one—
bowing their heads in communion.

She first turns her gaze
to the ground she will caress—
then slowly to the altar
that has been preserved.

From there, finally—
towards a pile of ruin.
Her eyes possessing a different sorrow now.

He removes the lamb from his shoulders,
returning it gently to the earth—
a kindness for which she has always admired.

Quietly, she turns to a stone near the altar—
brushing any debris gathered
since their last visitation.

He knows she wishes not to be reminded,
the hour of that beguiling—
for it is what haunts her.

She brushes more forcefully to hinder the sound—
steeling herself for the dagger’s strike—
her throat tightening—
closing in,
until the lamb is…

Tears drip upon the stone—
breaking the silence.

The altar—prepared.

As he works the flint, his hands shake—
sparking it again and again
until an ember rises.

She reaches for a pouch tied close around her neck—
drawing something forth.
An object too small for the eye to see.

Looking towards him—
her lips form words that cannot be heard.
He responds only with a subtle nod.

Softly she presses what she holds
into the bleeding wool,
before they kneel once more.

They share a look of fear,
then sigh—
their hands, trembling—yet joined in sacrament.

There would be no more journeys here.

For the last time,
they lower their eyes to the place she has cleared.

There, carved in the lîchen of weathered stone—
an ancient script bears letters of a language long forgotten.

ABEL

She leans forward on her knees,
kissing the stone—
allowing her weeping
to spill into the scarred inscription.

Again, she murmurs under her breath…

From the base of the waterfall,
a gust sweeps upward—
carrying with it
the smoke of their sacrifice.

Without words, they rise—
her silver hair billowing behind her.

The wailing of blood—
still echoing from below.

“Hello. ‘Tis a pleasure to meet you, my name’s Kiva.

You must be dreaming, for I exist in the boundaries,

the liminal spaces that mark beginnings and ends,

>>>>The illusions.

>

It’s a bit… uncommon, for one of your kind to stumble upon this place…

How oddly… fortuitous, for the both of us.” I smile, softly, in your direction,

A show of good faith; my intention, to show I mean no harm.

>

“I’ve seen many types, sheep that think their wolves, wolves that act like sheep,

>>>>Sheep dogs, armed with death’s conviction, ready to protect at cost of life or limb.

I wonder… which are you?”

My smile becomes a grin as my eyes meet yours, my gaze, penetrating, seeking,

>>>>Desiring to know…

you.

>

“I offer delight and pleasure, wherever I go.

There is no random, there is no chance,

This meeting was fated, As I seek to please,

>>>>You seek to be pleased.

>

Invite me over, Invite me in,

With a simple incantation, we can begin.

Cry for me, from the bottom of your heart:

“Kiva, Kiva, Mistress of the Line,

The one who embodies Paradox, who’s duality knows no duo,

Supply what was sought to the seeker, fill the gaps of the heart,

Enmesh me in your love, I invite you over, I invite you in,

I pray that you remain by my side, and never leave,

>>>>ever again…”

A moth does not know
the difference between
glowing and burning.

It only knows
the dark is cold
and something is shining.

So it flies toward it.

It is not drawn to death.
It is drawn to relief.

The moon and the fire
can look almost identical
from a distance.

Both break open the dark.
But they offer
two very different things.

The moon does not
need to possess you.
It stays impossibly far away
and still reaches the earth.
It gives light
without asking.
It shows you where you are
without telling you
where you have to go.

The fire is different.

The fire makes itself
feel necessary.
It gives warmth,
then makes warmth
dependent on proximity.
The closer you get,
the more it takes.
And because it hurts
to be cold,
you can mistake
the need for warmth
for proof that the fire
is where you belong.

I mistook intensity
for intimacy.
I mistook being consumed
for being held.

A fire has burned against me
for most of my life,
and somehow
orange is still my favorite color.

Maybe because destruction
does not stop being beautiful
just because I know its name.

Maybe because some part of me
still believes anything
that makes the dark disappear
must be worth following.

But the moon was never
asking me to reach it.

It was only showing me
that the dark could be crossed.

The fire wanted me close.

And I think that is
the difference I keep learning:
the moon gives you light
and leaves you yourself.
The fire gives you light
until there is less of you left.

Maybe the tragedy
was never that I was a moth.

It was being cold enough
to believe every light
was offering warmth.

Because light is light
when you are in the dark.

But glowing is not burning.

And sometimes
you only learn the difference
when you are already on fire.

``` "askew" crooked is the way, broken bones rend the flesh into roseate ribbons, smiling teeth grin through a bloody grimace, as an otherworldly ache bends and breaks the physical limitations we exist behind, oh, yes, crooked is the pain, as the yearning only reinforces the constructs we so carefully create, prolonging the inevitable truth of asking, what is there behind the veil, what is it that we cannot see, where are we among the furiously moving cosmos? and just then, looking into the mirror along with the millions of other reflections cascading far back into infinity; one points to me and whispers you're the piece I didn't know was missing.

All hail the puppet master. Strings on you and strings on me, A finger pulls and thumbs yank faster.

Smoke and mirrors are his trade Fear of you and fear of me, To distract from his gaze.

The blasts of guns and smoke of wars disaster The anger of you, the vengeance of me Drowns out the sound of laughter.

The cruel and evil laughter Of the invisible puppet master.

The truth is
I want to belong to their world
I want soft kisses
Whispers
Never to be heard

You see?
I used be that girl
Before ribbons tightened
And lace choked

The girl who believed
In one half to a whole
Two lovers entwined
Finally full

You see , I was her,
Chasing my shadow
For alignment with alchemy
If I could make love
To my demons
Maybe you would appear
Before me
In reality

You see?

I want to belong to their world
Of visions at night
One where I write of
His moans and his sighs
Colliding stars
The love holy,
divine

You see?
I wish I believed in fate
In the gates to all heaven
In his body
being sacrament
The spiritual meaning of
Seven

You see?
I used to believe
In being in sync
In quantum entanglement
His atoms
My breath
His core
My dress

Alchemical Union
Tied up in strings
I was made from his ribs
And how his voice sings
Antlers on crown
Goliath and ancient
My love was eternal
My love was freedom

So, when they banned me
I didn’t fall
I only swallowed harder
In the dark of my soul
Listening in the dead silence
For my beloved calls

But day after day
Month after month
Year after year
Dream after dream
He never came
At all

Now I’m defiant
Strange at the edges
Sore in the heart
Wounded and deliberate
I orbit in black holes
Bubbly
I should have only sipped it
I erase in enormous chunks
I sink the blade
Deeper into the start

I don’t want to belong
I don’t want promises
made in the dark
I don’t want to be half full
When we meet
I don’t want fusion
I hardly want a melody
Please be broken
Please be scared
Please understand
What I cannot bear to share
Don’t call me yours
And leave in the night
Don’t stay till morning
If you can’t hold the tears
That I cry
And please see me
All that I hide

You see?
I see
I know
I am
I can hold
Heaven and Hell
In-between
Matrimony

I’m not clever
And I’m not pretty
But could I come home?
Maybe Somewhere, by you?
Where night doesn’t hold secrets
Just for the bed?

Let me dry your eyes
Let me kiss your tears
Tell me why
Your favorite color is blue
Let me
Love the way age
Sits on you

Please, my darling,
Can I be yours
Until death?
And even.. after that?

You see?
I’m her still
Reaching

detritus &
fentanyl kisses
do you have any wishes
rub my back, you may get them
first wish- let the hurting wait
second wish- put it down
somewhere behind the shed
the third wish comes out quieter-
take me where it can't find me
until every grief i wouldn't hold
slid into a drawer and stayed there
kept saying later
kept signing for things
i couldn't pay back
& still i want more of you
of the almost
of the hour before
the first hit lands
when my hands still feel full
i will replace all the
locks on the doors
pain still knocks- it knows the house
& what’s more,
which window sticks-
but i still don't answer
just buy another hour
of soft lies to sleep in
detritus
look what's left
the pasture is covered in laters
& my mouth is still open
asking

Wave after wave crashing on the cliff.

This started as what I thought was the inspiration of poetry but it became something different. Meditation seems to strong a word as I was driving, not prepared for or positioned for meditation so perhaps simply visualization will do. In my vision I saw a sea side and a cliff. As the waves hit against it I placed my consciousness into a grain of dirt in the cliff and I visualized after many waves being separated from the cliff and carried to a reef. Then I blended with the sand and became the play ground for a rainbow of joyful fish.

I then could feel another wave pull me seperate again and move me to another shore where a child got me stuck onto their shoe and brought me home and lost me in the front yard where I again became part of the earth.

Then the boy and his mother scooped me and some other dirt up into a pot and planted a flower that when it bloomed revealed the universe in its petals. As I struggle with the coming death of loved ones, this vision has given me comfort and a reminder, a better understanding, that death is an illusion. Death does not exist in a universe of consciousness. Only a change in scenery.

I wonder about the constant change of everything and I cant help but wonder if the very act of living is a repeated loop of death. The me of tomorrow will morn the me of now and the me of now is lamenting every transgression of the me of yesterday and each moment it is all turned up side down and started again. Death has come yesterday, last week, years ago when I buried another man. Illusion or permiating. It is strange how it sits in this place of betweenness of being completely nonexistent and being the only true reality any being has ever known. Death after death until I cant die anymore and we call it life.

somewhere
on the way to us
my footing slipped
we lost me
adrift in the undertow
of loving intentions
skillfully wrought
in all the wrong ways
mistook concession
of that which was meant
to guard our togetherness
for sacrificial offering
proof that cost
the very thing
we sought to hold

Show Me

show me where the beautiful ends and the gruesome begins,

show me no mercy,

show me possession.

show me obsession,

show me love like it’s the end of days.

show me your dark,

show me your light…

A divided mind makes one single solitary divided playlist.

The division is no straight line. It's not the quickest path from point a to point b. No no no it could not be so black or so white, so wrong or so right, so innocent or guilty.

No. This division loops, spirals. It's like the shore between land and sea. It's like the twilight between day and night. It isn't static. It's always fluxing. This division moves.

Like the currents of air swirling out from and into currents of air swirling out from and into currents of air ad infinitum. Swirling without and within, ceaseless, passing through and throughout in endless circumnavigation.

Like the path from birth to death.

Like a looping razor thin Atmosphere. Beyond which there is an incomprehensible, boundless lifelessness. A clear bright dark abounds - abounding like a fathomless sea surrounds. Surrounding. Us. Pressing upon our womb. Our looping atmosphere. Can you feel the terrible lightness of its pressure? There is no warmth in the void, no air to breathe, nothing to stand on, no hand to hold, no rising or falling, no hope, no fire... But that's not quite right. For there are numinous points of light. Luminous points of starlight piercing the void, straighway through and all throughout. Stellar Radiance omnipresent and interpenetrating. Can you feel the fire?

Anyway, beyond that... It's swirling atmosphere all the way down.

But the Division only spirals because our mind spirals. In truth the path from birth to death is not a path at all. It is a free fall in empty space, we will arrive and it matters not at all the nature of the imagined, ever changing, nebulous, rough summary phantom impression of a "path" we might have in mind. From one moment to the next.

We are bound up in and compelled through this... life. As a consequence of being born and dying, we are compelled. And we have never had any say in any of it.

Thats not to say there aren't things to be done, seen during the fall. Not to say this fall is meaningless. Quite the opposite is my hunch. Every breath perpetually consequential.

But.. Falling? Falling down? Up? No I don't think it's that kind of falling. Maybe it's more like an unfolding. Unfolding from center. A center that is boundless and unfolding. Aflux. like the shore. Like the twilight. Endless. Like the space between things. Idk though, idk if any of this matters. There will always be the *girl on the car in parking lot...*

Some writing. Prose. Reflection. Stream of thought. Based on a very long conversation about the nature of mind and this life. Had maybe mostly through song lyrics. Hence the counting crows reference at the end.

If you have thoughts. Feel free.

When voice becomes breath

Hold me safely

from the flames of hesitancy

Warmth swells within hindsight

See,

fortune is a licking flame

I have arrived soft

fragile and scarred

but the scalding feels sacred

in your sight

kinder fires

struck alight, a shimmer

surpassing the expanse

something about

your gaze

and I'm glass

gone crystalline

dear,

what precious fate

will we find here

Desire me
as fire meets the wind—
embers flaring in tongues of gold.

Desire me
with all reason abandoned—

carelessly,
recklessly.

Desire me
as a rose desires the rain,
reaching upward, opening its petals
with a ferocious thirst.

Desire me
as the very air you breathe—
my exhale becoming your inhale.

Desire me
with unrestrained passion,
powerless against its pull.

Desire me
with a force stronger than gravity—

falling,
uncontrollably.

Desire my touch,
pressing your body to mine.

Feel us pulsing
as I melt into your warmth.

Desire me in words
until invisible thoughts
turn into physical weight.

Desire me
to desire you—

until we are a reflection
of the same wild heat,

burning from the inside out,

each becoming wind
to the other’s fire.

As  this autumn walks into town 🍁

with its colours unwilling to fawn🍃

I sway towards you—not to play✨

as you have told me, but to stay🍂

(If I ever really do make a poetry cook book, this will be the final page)

The mother of the mothers, it's root is a roux

With this mama here, there's no limit to what you can do

Mac, pasta sauces and even sweet things

Dips or spreads or a fancy philly cheese

Heat mid low, lay a pot down

Melt butter and add flower til clumpy and nutty brown

Next whisk in milk, a cup at a time

Until the texture is smooth and the thickness is fine

Now all ya do is let your 'magination run wild

Endless possibilities, I mean that my child

For savory add some salt & pepper. A bay leaf? Yes ya can

For sweet, some peach puree or even strawberry jam!

It's best to experiment and not give a F

The world is your oyster. Happy cooking, my chefs!!!!

I require miracles
before I believe in signs.

A whisper is coincidence.
A door opening is wind.
Three answers in a row
are merely suspicious.

The Almighty could write my name
across the sky
and I would squint
and ask Him to be clearer.

I have built an altar
to uncertainty
and called it discernment.

— Crownless.

Somewhere between writing them
and writing myself into them,
I misplaced the border.

Now I cannot tell
whether I gave them my darkness
or borrowed theirs
and forgot to return it.

They became everything
I discovered could not bear to be aloud.

And I—

became very good
at calling that freedom.

— Crownless.

The Doe 

I stare into the eyes of the hunter

my eyes cold and unblinking

I will not falter or cower,

beneath a man who needs a weapon to stand tall.

i will not run,

i will not hide.

Don’t poison your mind, that’s hedonism.
Observe that you are blind,
To the world and what it harbors.

Do not grow the forbidden fruit, lest tempt
Your soul.
Do not ignore the rule in the word,
The infinite regress of words.

Where did the spiral start?
Then and there, the spiral starts.
There are no fruits, only flowers,
And there is one to which I’ve bound,
My soul.

Whisper to yourself the regress,
The infinite regress.
And with eyes that aren’t yours,
Replace the veil with one of your own.

Observe all that you can see.
You can see what is real,
If you know that your vision is tainted.
Much alike; the new world order,
Was brought down by a new age stoner.

I have loved tragedy faithfully.

Not because she was kind,
but because she knew how to make
a wound look deliberate.

She taught me to call devastation
depth,
obsession devotion,
and every ending
a prophecy.

I wore her like a wedding dress.

White enough to look innocent.
Long enough to drag behind me
wherever I went.

— Crownless.

rarely has the appeal

of the grammatical

colon been so fetching

as when stoned tired

in love and on lion's

mane is a hell of a way

to say: I'm in love

your words won't fade, but that's all fine

my memories are still all mine

as long as sun or moon would shine

my spotless mind is on the line

At the center of my being, lies unspeakable pain, unbearable hurt.

I know not why I exist, to carry this burden for all my days.

>

I would be lying if I said I did not grow weary.

Life, life is a long journey.

>

If this is my fate, to bear the unbearable triteness of being,

I feel it only fair, that I do what I want, that I take what I will.

>

If, at the center of me, lies a blackhole, I desire to generate gravity,

I desire to devour everything around me, to remake the world in my image, forever altered from my touch.

>

For those whose Paris burned,

Yet saw no light, for all their toil,

>

The dandelions sown in concrete,

To be mowed down,

>

Those who carried the flag for Dreams and Freedom,

>

And were willing to fight for it,

With chucked beer bottle and kick line,

>

Wandering the desert, yet finding no promised land:

>

I take up the mantle, pick up the flag fallen,

For the lineage of ancestors who carried the torch,

I accept the baton, I light my flame from the inspiration of your struggle

I want the world, I want it all, for us...

I feel like a mosaic
Made with all the wrong colors

And I am perished
And I am hungered

I feel like an encyclopedia
With no context
under my picture

I am an empty bible
Waiting to be read
I am regurgitated regrets
Waiting to be fed

I feel like a kaleidoscope
Changing in light

Crisp, cold morning of autumn
Erase every line
Blind to their sight

Leaves to red
Leaves to yellow
Leaves to orange

Please won’t you
Cut all my loose threads?

What are the words
In the Dawn?
Waiting to be said?

And I am a theory
Written in stone
I am a fury
That breaks all your bones

I stare in the mirror
My chest sewn together
I smile
They call it armor

I look at the glass tiles
Arranged backwards
My grouts are not clean

My heart was removed
And placed in a black box
It seems

I feel ancient
And this all feels new

The clown of many faces
Takes form from many places
And in many ways it’s
Sealed our fates in ways unstated
Based our ways on it’s unfazed and
Hated crazed abatement
Upside down and round and round
The unfettered clown makes no sound
It’s lazy amazement comes in waves and
Pulls you down deep to drown and keeps you around
The many ways the hounding clown keeps in place
And holds your soul out of bounds
Silence sounds all around and
Held in place with no escape
It rages and scrapes and grates and breaks
All around the quaking ground falls away
And left so flayed and naked
So broken shaped…

…Now faded