If Courage gave his blessing
Might an extending hand be seen
Gently, yet shakily
Floating towards your cheek
But curses upon that hand
Bleached bone as cold flesh
Wilted and burned away
You shall shriek in terror
At this hand, the Pumpkin King’s
For it would tear at your flesh
As it has what remains of its own
If Courage gave his blessing
Might an extending hand be seen
Gently, yet shakily
Floating toward my cheek
But ever more a curse
Upon my being
Your touch would feel of nothing
Your hand fallen
Crumbling like a clod of dirt
Void of any fertility
Fear and revolt
Denied of this pleasure
Of touch
Curses and blessings
Pitiful creature


Blank Pages

Everything is a blur
But there are no tears
In my eyes,
I stare at the pages of
The story of my life,
A fiction
All I desired
In the palm of my hands
I never dared turn another page
Again and again
Staring until the pages turned themselves
A chilling breeze
And the pages soon lacked words
The wind grew in ferocity
So much time has passed
Yet the book won’t close,
And the words won’t return
If only to be filled with curses
From those whose praise I used to read
It will always be a kind memory
A fond fantasy
But this fiction has two paths
To continue
Or end
If I’m the one to turn the page
This time,
Will there be words
Any words


A man without a child
Is a life without a future
More than once,
Miracles have gone unwelcomed
And it is left to a falsehood
Conception of the mind
I have many children
All without a name
For, in truth,
None are of me
They were here long before I
Or anyone
But they are my adopted children
Absolutes of what should be
Ideas, older than life itself
But is there love?
Is there value in the eternal?
My children don’t need, nor want
My protection
Abuse them with your words.
They will exist alongside
The dust of your bones
And mine alike
They do have heart, though
Enough to be
If only, truly
If they possessed great diplomacy
Or the will of a tyrant
Maybe I could be closer with my children
Closer than a mere thought away.