thought, black nothing walls circling
rivers of sentences twisting endless curves
feeding, darkened nothings with outstretched
hands piled up with shadows
feeling, nothing darkness with fingertips
reaching forever outward.

“Ash Names”

I sketched names in the ashes
of old words and older feelings,
tasting lives; how many had walked
streets like these, in days like these,
dancing in doorways to hide from rain,
or climbing over infinite mountains
in dreary seaside alleyways, when
they’d never dare to see the summit.
All ash, pre-built and pre-burnt,
with endings already written.


Ten milligrams is very different to twenty.
You can feel the difference, but it’s not enough
to leave you sobbing on the floor for the lack of it,
gasping for air that decided it’d rather not be breathed,
or staring at a mirror looking for the cracks
in your reflection – it’s just enough
to tide you over until you can bear the thought
of sublime, utter nothingness.