Lonely Isle

I live upon an island
set in a swirling sea of gray
of life that lingers on
though time I see is fleeting.
I walk through a fogged jungle
dodging, parrying, feinting, thrusting
must that I marshal my defenses
as I go about this life I live.

Though my island is but a bubble
bobbing in the transverse sea
lonely in a crowded world
shivering through the heat of day.
I pray as I’m preyed and devoured
yearning to find some solace
in the solitude of my lonely isle
beset by many who dare invade.


Short Stories

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…though hope I have forsaken

I wrote this a few months ago, and posted it on a different blog. I thought I’d share it here, just for the hell of it.


There’s a girl – there’s always a girl – flitting in the periphery of my consciousness. Beautiful and transcendent, the desire of my lonely heart. I yearn for her, I ache for her, and see myself falling for her.

Falling…

falling…

falling….

But…

…all I see is pain in my future because of her.
A girl like her never falls for a guy like me.
I’m being assaulted by those around me.
“She wants you to ask her out,” they cry.
“Why haven’t you asked her out?”

But can they know the truth? That I cannot dare to hope? That kind of hope is seductive, but ultimately it kills the soul. I refuse to surrender myself to that masochism. Pain has stolen enough from me. Once more, and there won’t be anything left of me but a withered husk to be blown away by the wind, destined to be forgotten by all, especially she whom commands my desire.

And I cry in the late night vigil, weeping for a love that I’m unable to give, a love that exists solely in the state of what if.

Perhaps I’m nothing more than a coward and deserve nothing better than to become embittered by loneliness, ravaged by time until I’ve forgotten tenderness and emotion, only to die as I’ve always feared, utterly alone.

For what is love without risk?

Joy without pain?

Hope without disappointment?

But I’ve grown timid is my despair, unable to open myself to the possibility, unable to see anything other than failure, and beyond that, oblivion.

I wish to sleep, to forget my troubles in the comfort of my dreams, but I will not be comforted. Not in this. She haunts me and all I want is to rest. Rejecting her may be my greatest folly, but I see no other way.

You see…

I cannot be hurt again. One more would will be the end of me, and she hasn’t earned the right for me to risk annihilation. If this be a test, I know I’ve failed.

But yet I live, though hope I have forsaken.


Short stories and other works

Nowing hour

I woke up this morning to see a friend of mine make a reference to Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky. Naturally I reread the poem, and one thing led to another, whereupon I came across this website for archaic words. I started playing around, writing my own poem as a writing exercise. I’m not really a poet, and I’m not even sure this makes any sense, but if it doesn’t I’ll claim poetic license. Enjoy!


Embed from Getty Images

Nowing hour

I began one stagnant eve
upon the threshold between yore and nowing hour
where I stood a waffling man
shifting amongst wants with mask aglower.
Inly I began to sweven
whenas slumber I forsook
the nowing hour nigh upon me come
wist ruth, desire aflamed in my coeur.

Afore decisions be made
a rede I hight hither now
of yore I shan’t return
of morrow erelong I must embrace.
Verily, the path long sought
peradventure must be trod
afore the threshold between yore and nowing hour
breaks, erelong shackled I be made.


My other short stories