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Broken I am

A man crouched upon tired knee

Brought down by Duty and Ethics and Morals.

I sit removed as an inner part

Of this desiccated husk sucked dry of will

And of beauty

And of magic,

A lingering awareness surveying the ruin of self-doubt

And of strain

And of years poured into creations steeped in falsehood

And in emptiness

Broken monuments to the egos of men whose value my own exceeded beyond measure,

Though I am no longer who I was

But only the he who I have become.

In the still times there is no silence,

Nor do those songs and fantasies play out on the stage of my perception.

Now there is a gnawing doom that consumes my thought,

An unending torrent of failure.

Do not look for me here.

I am gone away.


Naked Snow

Alone I stand,




Insanity runs.

Insanity sweet and perfect.

None of you can touch me now.


Thew snow falls shallow,

yet the cold of the Earth affect me.

I twist,

I throttle,

Naked and alone –

my arms stretch out to my sides.


Run. Run away.

Run from the insanity that is within.


I am naked and alone in this snow,

and none of you

shall ever touch me.


It’s still there,
the ever-present roiling,
the ever gnawing
Oh, but I grow so weary,
I am spent
with so little left for tomorrow,
for being,
for myself.
Wave after wave after wave,
I flail beneath the encompassing crush.
It is so close,
a sweet reprieve through quiet bliss,
a mouthful of water,
a quick, merciful gulp of burning resolution,
it is so near,
my fingers touch that place,
chill and warmth and pain and acceptance.
With a sigh,
a breathy whisper I am gone,
forgotten and unknowing,
to sleep in undisturbed,
unknowing silence.


Start again.

And here we are.
A meandering path from innocence to…
to somewhere else.
Through torment and joy and fear and triumph,
to arrive at a place both ephemeral and permanent.
I am,
but I am becoming.
I am,
and I am not yet.
I am so weary of the trek,
and I no longer know how to justify the race,
how to envision the prize.

I do nothing.
I think nothing.
I delay and obfuscate and deny.
Time is a healer,
and I cry into Her bosom,
waiting for healing,
waithing for health.


With a sudden thump,

Heavy with finality,

The formless hand of time tosses another trowelful of soft,

Loamy earth atop a small box

Whose contents are forevermore hidden

To the eyes of consciousness. 

The gentle breath of forgetfulness stirs the soft wisps of moist steam

That curl in faint tendrils from the gash

In the rich,



Rain falls. 

Now gentle,

Now torrential,

And the ground forgets the scar

Beneath the choking weeds of regret.  

In a whisper of time,

All is forgotten to dust

And loss. 

Mute Gloom – unfinished

Like a pervasive fog,

a bleak, white chill seeps into me,

into my bones and up into the small chamber of light

where meditators play,

damping the tiny flame

that sometimes there dances.

Memories stir,

quickly tamped down into a gnawing ache –

I wish not to remember,

yet I know not to forget –

some lessons are harder than others.


Flight exerpt

Scott drew in a long, slow breath, drinking in the icy air like a thin, black dew. His nose was numb from the cold. He closed his eyes against the looming darkness, and let his mind run loose over his calculations. Scott tossed and spun figures in his mind, creating, destroying, and recreating landscapes of possible speeds and trajectories for his small ship. In this local valley of spacetime, days out from the Arturu Gate, only a halo of cool starlight reached the ship from the pinpoints spread across the static blanket of strange, dark energy. The Edge coasted through a smooth river of darkness nearly as deep outside its hull as inside.


It is cold as I sit in the shade,
Tasting the soreness of the day.
The sun cannot see me
Here in the shadow.
I sink into myself to hide.

I spit.
The remnant of the drink.
Black coffee and bitters,
Rich, leather flavors.
I am rich beyond my own means.

Do not approach me here,
A few degrees short of warmth.
I will devour your mind
And consume the hell that you bring.
In this place I am alone.


I look to you,
My friend,
The emptiness bedside me.
There is no one there,
I am alone,
As life and I worked together
To shut those doors,
To isolate this pain
And wonder
And joy
From interlopers outside.
I shall live and die alone,
For that is how life was ordained-
Man in the image,
In the image of a lonely god.
There is sadness.
In isolation there is always sadness and regret.
We are a social creature
And solitude begets pain.
I do not fear the pain,
But neither am i the fiend who might embrace that kiss.

Tonight I do wish for a friend.
That is something I no longer remember,
Something whose memory shall only grow fainter.

Tonight I am alone.

Is it as simple as that –
A few hours of who I am
For a morsel of bread?
Is there any other way
Without leaving this little city of humanity?

Alas, l for I am torn with revery,
Visions of greatness,
Art and poetry,
Fruits of the vine of sorrow.
Are there no other outlets for wisdom?

The sun is cooling,
Though August is not yet full.
I feel the change in the air
When dreams precipitate to craft
Where is the harvest of the year?


Once again I touch the glass,
My lips and against the chill of the glass –
Razor’s edge
Of unforgiving crystal.

Golden nectar,
Nourished by caring arms
And shining eyes –
This joy is borrowed.

I cannot say why I return over and over
Why I am drawn,
Lodestone to pole
To this dissociation with life.

Where does this path point?
Where do these feet pull
This slow,
Reluctant mind?

Escape had been so easy,
Upon a time
I knew paths to release
Before these shackles of Duty.

This pull is more than desire,
It is compulsory,
A need to flee,
To not be.

I am not searching for nothing,
I do not yearn for nonexistence,
I only wish to escape
The trap of this reality.

This reality,
Wherein a moment of peace
Is bought at the price
Of a day of pain.

This reality
Where I watch Being
Dissolve continually
into unbeing.

So I make the trade.
I buy escape
For the price of depression.

Pain deferred,
Deferred with interest.
Why is there always such cost
For joy?

Another sip.
One last sip
Takes me from reality
To escape.
I sign the debt.

Mick On Everything

Just a regular guy who is interested in everything

Wherever you go, there you are.

And here I am, Judith Clarke, writer.


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