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

Slipstream

December 22, 2005

It is but a name, rendered
in a song that speaks
of fresh whitewash over peeled walls,
of mad days and quiet nights
of unbridled flight that took off
from the force of a desperate embrace.
It is but a name,
mere phonetics so arranged
to better remember,
for identity is a thing
that was born from caution.
But I never knew how
to be circumspect in matters
of passion and rage and love,
to hear it spoken
is for every letter to slake endlessly
a parched consciousness,
it is to forget time and gravity and distance
so bone and flesh and spirit
can heed that whisper dropped
in the dead of night,
it is a slip of a name that seared
its presence on every surface--

revealing the path home
to one who knows no other word.

blue rogue