Sink into the Tension

Lingering in places filled with tension

Thick enough to cut 

Whispers of air across your skin

Raising goosebumps on muscles, taut

.

Feeling the feather-weight whisper of 

The thought 

The energy 

The vibration of

Almost being touched

Yet never quite enough

.

No rush to culminate

To seize, to conquer, to devour

Sovereign enough to make you wait

Glass slipper remaining as the clock strikes the hour

.

Tension rolling off muscled shoulders

Blood boiling beneath engorged members

“You fucking tease”

Keep teasing me

Make me wait forever

So that my final surrender 

culminates in a rush of light

.

Forever devoured

Infinitely transformed

Enhancing your sight

.

Are you sure?

Are you ready to be changed within?

Will fear overtake you?

Or will you sink into the tension

.

Let waiting, play

Our cat and mouse games 

Draw the predator out of you

And I’ll be your prey

Waiting to be owned

Devoured. 

Worshiped.

.

Show me. 

How willing are you? 

To wait. To fight

Beg

Please beg

.

For admission 

Through gates of a place 

That awakens you anew

Xx Heaven

The Art of Disappearing: Part II

The Art of Disappearing: Part II

Photos albums with our names 

stained on stiff pages

Our faces plastered all over 

Slick covers

.

The smell of sweet carrots

And fried grease,

Ice-cream on old stomping grounds 

Hood stores turned into co-working spaces

And cute cafes

The mark of gentrification 

times changing

Yet our love remains the same

.

Laughter in the middle of

that street in front of Emerald’s Pub

“Have you gotten home alright” texts

“I miss you, when can I see you?”

.

Chanting and singing Gods name moving

Orange flames on white candles

Mahogany tables scented with 

the aroma of love, laughter, and remembrance

.

Sinking into the cushions of my blue couch

Tears streaming down flushed cheeks

Green eyes stare back at me

With unconditional presence

.

I bear witness to being cherished

By those worth loving

Worth remembering

Dancing in the stories

Of my old prayers

.

Yes

It’s a gift to be remembered

by those

Who could never forget 

The Art of Disappearing

The Art of Disappearing

A cup of tea neglected on the kitchen counter

Waiting for the scorching heat to cool down so that

I might sip from its contents

.

Selfishly, the tea stands as

My longing to be comforted

.

Yet it sits—

Three hours later

In a cold heap

honey sitting at the bottom of the cup

.

I’ve forgotten

What it feels like 

To be warmed from the inside out

Just as those have forgotten

What it feels like

To be loved by me

.

And maybe that’s Gods blessing

Allowing myself to be 

Forgotten

Reflections on Governors Island

Governors Island, NYC Circa 2019

In this world full of mirrors
How clearly does one see themselves
Entertaining copious illusions,
Praying to find comfort by fostering absentmindedness

As clocks tick—
Seconds turning to hours,
Hours to years
Treading closer to ultimate demise
Oneself is a testament to the deaths that occur each moment

This endless search for innocence
In cloves of recollections
But when peering deeply
Reality is none were ever innocent

One can suppose,
Maturity is a shattering of illusions
Calling the soul to witness the horrors of itself
In crystal clear mirrors

Shattered Reflections

In the image of your reflection,

we’d find shattered mirror pieces —

glass poking out the frame’s tension.

Rushing to clear the mess I’d nicked my finger in.

.

Blood flowing on marble floors

startled, dazed, a bit unsure.

Its presence ricocheting like a gunshot, point-blank;

dreams crumbling, jolting us all awake.

.

Throbbing pulsations remind me

of its existence —

lies shattering the world once created.

Beautiful illusions leading one to quietly wonder,

“What was real? What was fake?”

.

Did I mistrust my judgment?

Was my intuition offline?

Yes — I’m God’s child, emboldened with the divine

yet divinity became stripped bare in deceit;

half-truths, manipulations, and betrayal all meet.

.

Cowardice is one’s own personal hell.

Frozen in time and space, inaction becomes a choice itself.

Small internal voices whisper, “What’s wrong with me?”

Shame becoming an insidious, contagious disease.

.

In the fractal pieces, we witness a thousand reflections

one face here, another there — infinite ways of deception.

Mirrors culminating truth that can hardly hide,

showing the fragility of the Self inside.

.

Time passes,

and the finger generates skin cells to mend

all the pieces the mirror tried to end,

scars remaining as a lesson of the horrors when

lies become the identity we live in.