He sang to me in silence

Behind closed doors and blind

His words spoke smoke of glass

Broken numb against my mind

Fallen deaf unto the pass, I called

And beneath betrothed in kind

My throat lump cries too heavy now

And woeful are these times.

Sorrow now, as sorrow heaves

True sorrow grieves—

He sang to me in silence.

Behind closed doors and blind.

He met his moment

of defeat

with a quick stare

of disbelief

as the ghosts slowly

gathered at his grave

they welcome him there

with nothing to share

only to witness his transition

behold the ferryman with

a blood red bang

and so his fate was sealed

he lost his head

and now he’s dead

yet thanks

you for

your solemn

disposition

The restaurant was dark with a red hue eavesdropping all around. The neon sign in the window hummed like the kind of fluorescents made to kill bugs. The aquarium near the host stand kept burping: it was too green and it ran in pitches of white noise.

The glasses on our table were tall with soap scum walls and unfiltered water lukewarm. He put his hand palm up on the ivory tablecloth near them and I landed mine in it.

He looked at me and smiled with his lips still closed. I had never made eye contact with anyone for that long before. He looked beyond where I could see. I was afraid to look away and lose the moment, but I was so intimidated that I knew I would never remember it.

I scooted closer in my seat despite the round table between us, and he took a heavy bite of air.

Then time went blurry.

I wish now that I could speak then because maybe, then, it wouldn’t have ended that way.

I am broken and falling

Like the forgotten windows of

An old Southern church

Remnants of stained glass

Cracked upon the hymns and

Shattering with my tears

And reflecting the light

In shades of melancholy

Enough with this dark night.

Drop the needle on some vinyl and breathe in Roberta Flack. Black silk brushes against my thigh, smooth and languid against the pale.

Trains screech, and run through these streets, bold in their atmosphere.

The earth spins silent on its axis, apologetic to none.

My melancholy birthright.

Fyodor Dostoevsky was a renowned Russian novelist, journalist, and philosopher, born on November 11, 1821, in Moscow. He grew up in a highly religious and intellectual family, and his father was a doctor at a hospital for the poor.

After studying engineering and military science, Dostoevsky turned to literature and published his first novel, "Poor Folk," in 1846, which gained him critical acclaim. However, his writing and political activities led him to be arrested in 1849 for being involved in a liberal socialist group, and he was sentenced to death.

At the last minute, the sentence was commuted to four years in a Siberian labor camp. This experience had a profound impact on Dostoevsky's life and work, and he later wrote about it in his semi-autobiographical novel "The House of the Dead."

After his release, Dostoevsky became deeply religious and began writing his most famous works, including "Crime and Punishment," "The Brothers Karamazov," and "Notes from Underground." These novels explore the complexities of human nature and the struggles of individuals to find meaning in a world that often seems cruel and indifferent.

Dostoevsky's work has had a profound influence on literature and philosophy, and he is widely considered one of the greatest writers of all time. He died on February 9, 1881, in St. Petersburg, Russia.

Some people believe in the rulers of their religions.

They look to them for strength & guidance with every life decisions.

Then we have the skeptics, who say the hell with that, no Im not controlled to fit in.

They run their own show the way they want, the outcome basis is going on a limb

Not me though, I guess you can say Im one of the few since Im not sure who decides whether I sink or swim.

However, for everything else I like to believe the man in the moon has a hand in my requisitions.

Since I was a child I would tell him every one of my secrets and inhibitions.

He shone Just enough light into my room keeping away monsters that may have been hidden.

The man in the moon lured me into dreamland, while guiding the tides ashore, crashing in synchronized rhythm.

He‘s seen it all, every bloody war, happy nights, sad heart breaks, dinosaurs and loving kindred.

Somehow he hangs so strongly in that dark night sky, as paintings all depicted.

To me the man in the moon seems the wisest of them all, still boasting of his consistence.

you took my hand and showed me how the sun’s light can warm instead of burn,

and just for a while, i felt what it is like to be sheltered unconditionally.

i looked at you in awe, with all these untamed feelings coming over me like a rush of the ocean’s waves sweeping me under for just a moment.

just a moment.

for once, being under the current of someone’s love didn’t feel suffocating and heavy. as I came up not for air but to see your eyes gazing back at me, i knew it would be foolish of me to turn and walk away from this cosmic dance between us.

so, I continued to dance with you on the rings of Saturn, allowing my heart to be set free.

What I do know is my soul has lost the will to resist you.

Your tenderness covers my invisible wounds.

Your hand holds my disfigured heart ever so gently.

Now I understand what it means to surrender all that I am

for precious moments with you.

I was lost in the dark on this path until your tender flame broke up the darkness surrounding me.

meet me on the equinox

somewhere between then and now,

where your whispers taste like powder sand

and liquid stars.

slipping my fingers into the marron

and cobalt streaked skies

slowly dipping my toes in your love

ever so gently, but with a blazing soul.

footprints on the moon,

imprinted over the kaleidoscope of your heart

my ever raging, peaceful midnight sun