Desperate times, I filled my pillow with the
Ashes of my failed scribbling from last month.
No inspiration, just more and more night terrors.

There was no comfort in his archived photos.
False hopes flourish in the rotting decay of guilt.
In anger, she deleted the laptop’s hard drive.

A beautiful sight from shore, the storm layers
And builds. We forget the shipwreck of our lives,
Trapped in the delight of our own desolation.

Even the most beautiful eyes are not enough
To sustain any vision of the future.
Steamed milk frothiness, I kissed her lips again.

There is deep work that has to be done alone.
Candles burn all night as we rip out the threads
Of inappropriate stitching – a darkened poetry.

Do not worry, fear twists the in-between places of the
Imagination. So, like most mystics James,
Your inner light casts odd and uncanny shadows.