CAVEAT

There is a place called
The Crossroads.

An intersection.

An intertwining of shadows and colors -- shards from boulevards of broken dreams, dizzying prismatic cascades of brilliance.

Be drawn into the murky whirlpools. Drink from punctured holes of sunlight. Whether you seek respite or redemption, this is only what you make of it. But we remain, always, our own guardians.

Welcome, Traveler.

I welcome myself
into my own plane.
On a rock, I carve
with my dagger
an inscription of my name.
With the little, sordid, tangled
deaths of day-to-day battle,
I will ensure my immortality
when the dust has settled.

-- Blue Rogue

SCRYING GLASS

Intelligent Ash

Poetic License

Soul Phantasms

Unguarded Utterance

INTUIT DIRECTION

We always arrive
at our destinations
with the help of stars.
Their ponderous trackings
benign and benevolent
in their certainty.
Salvation mas merely
a twinkle away,
and vastness
becomes more measurable
if inhabited by constellations.
But Neverland
was not included
when they made the compass,
and stars are too silent,
too jealous of secrets
cloistered within their nebula.
I am a mariner
in my dreams,
where oceans
can never be chartered
and heavenly bodies
are more mischievous
with travelers like me.
The moon merely winks
at my telescope
as it pulls the tide
depending on what tugs
the edges of its mouth,
making it smile.
Instead I sit
at the top mast
surrounded by a breeze
coming from the sighs
of a thousand sleeping people.
And then I wait,
intent,
for the merest wisp
from the stuff
in which dreams
are made of.
I listen
with every fiber of my being
for the sounds of clouds.

-- Blue Rogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Site Design by: S.L. Corsua

Longest Kiss

November 28, 2005

It started when I was born,
inside your arms, (conceived
out of longing that took shape)
clutching your skin for air, that is
your scent. A remnant
of a memory that did not exist
long before I was even
but a mere thought. I hear
voices speak of how they must
live in discordant rhythm
and I am but dimly aware of their pain
at being thrusted into the center of
glaring lights, so far away
from the crook of your neck
where I was taught to see in darkness
and speak to the tempo of your pulse beats
and making them echo through limbs
that are there only for as long as
I could hold on while stretches of
seconds float in and out of
my consciousness. My awareness,
whose only known world
ends, when your hair does not
veil us in secret, anymore.









blue rogue