Stranger to Myself

A stranger to my form, new inside my skin I never did get used to me.

That is to be my sin.

To be without that comfort of knowing who I am. To withheld the lack of doubt of being at home within.

Within my body, within my mind, a stranger to myself.

I can’t say in truth say I know me and mine and that is to be my crime.

My crime against myself, my sin against my sovereign hold, my knife against my throat.

I am stranger to my skin, unkown to my own thoughts, not at one with me and mine.

A stranger to myself.


The Arsonist Choir

I live within the arsonists choir, singing praises for raging fire.

We see it burn, we hear its call, we sing the fire’s blazing song.

I live within the arsonists choir and I am next, the chosen pyre.

Hear my song, sing my praise, until I am gone and only ash remains.

I do burn, I do rage, I am fire, the eternal blaze.

Burnt to ash, blackened dust, my praises sang by the arsonist choir.

That congregation of those waiting to embrace conflagration.

Feel the rage, feed the fire, embrace the pain, hold the flame.

Until not remains but ash and praise, in this…

The arsonist’s choir, our funeral pyre.


So The Foo Fighters caused this one, as it was inspired by their song “Something From Nothing” so figured I’d mention that one. Good song that one.

Scarecrows (Muffled Cries)

The family stands in the field, the cold wind of the northern farmlands blowing across their faces as they look at their start towards making a scarecrow, muffled cries can be heard.

The father turns towards the two children, he hands them a coat with a smile, the two children and put the coat on the scare crow, muffled cries can be heard.

Smiling the mother hands them a hat, a large hat, but its something they’d wear to keep the sun off the their face, the children put the hat firmly on the scare crow’s head, muffled cries can be heard.

The father pulls out a tool, to the give the scare crow the proper face. The muffled cries get louder and the children smile. They make the face, the muffled cries getting weaker until they go silent.

Now only the laughter of children remains, as the cold wind blows across the form of the new scarecrow and the children’s faces. Father drags the old scarecrow away, silence remains now, and the children go back inside. There is no more muffled cries, only weeping and the wind.

A Reading  (Read by me)

Muse At Play 1

I’m saying I feel strange and in disarray, disjointed and disappointed,

In me and my seeming to the point that my perception of of my imperfections is insisting

upon an insurrection upon the tyrant of this established existence so that my fleeting

moment might fade and falter and fastly degrade, disappear, as if I were but a dream, a

made up seeming, something that was never really there at all.