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

A Parting of Perception

November 30, 2006

A Parting of PerceptionBefore the quill, I held, scarred
the parchment, the universe decided
her own hands should be star-tanned
by a night sky that, in my world, cannot be.

She, who would always be at the verge
of existence, would know
infinity like a lover. In that place before light
reaches my eyes, before sight
allows only one perception
of worlds that should not exist
at the same time,
there would be the rarest of merging.
There, an imperceptible embrace.

And my hand would never feel the quiver
of the mind, that quiver striving to restore time
to its perpetual flow, and space
to the mercy of my senses. Yet
when the blinking of eyes has prompted
the quill to land the first of its strokes,
there remains what I have known
even before our worlds have separated:

she cannot be grasped by strings of syllables that wait ahead.

blue rogue