A Dying Love True, I am a wreck, Blood-soaked burgundy robes, My claim to the royal throne Of fame and fortune, A car crash of glowing metals & effervescent fumes Or shipwreck where rotting wood conceals treasured gold. My art speaks because that little voice does, Compelling me to risk a Crash & burn If I'm lucky, and if we're not. I have no choice but Total breakdown To build an empire from the shrapnel, For energy is neither created Not destroyed But transferred From our love to my expression. True love is as fluid As the metal magma resolidifying on the side of Highway 10 Or the swelling ocean that holds her majesty in a watery grave. I'm sorry for your loss, but I take solace in destruction; it provides the raw materials to forge my vision.

Mounting Olympus A holy demure had risen from the thoughtless exposure that crumbled under her heels each crux up Olympus; And I, forever faithful, belaying her ascent, unfounded, delaying my own, grounded as her head breached the clouds, A fairytale if not for the landslide burying me under stone proof of her unfathomable scale out of my rope-burned hands that only God can measure.