The Promise of Act One

the fallen tree’s eyeless stare
bears into my mind; is this
adventure’s calling, the
inciting incident of a heroic
narrative, the first page
of Act One? Shall I save it
from its misery, as an
unfolding mystery gravitates
towards me? Shall I right it
of its awkward disposition,
is this my time at last, is this–

I lower my head, switch songs
on my iPod, and walk past–

It’s just a fallen tree.

Clockwork Fairytale

I whisper dust from the withered pages
clasped within metal hinges; this,
is how I exorcise fear—what I gather
from the leather cover, strewn with
clockwork and untold adventures,
is purity, mechanical dreams
powered by bearings and clutches,
and as I open the book, I stare
into the ghostly gleam of the fairy’s eye,
and fall for the wild emerald pulses
that fill the depths of my empty soul

dreamers live lives

dreamers live lives bigger
than their reality. They soar,
as easily as they are broken;
they love and abandon recklessly.
They are the best adventurers,
treading on glassy grounds of
doom and wonder: eternally conflicted
and undecided about
their own lies,
their own truths.

Flying Machines

we call upon the ancient memories,
the faded days, when wings were still sacred
we wander through the landscape of winds;
our hearts leap from cloud to cloud, and
the moon-drenched sky sifts through
our imagination, leaving a cold trace
of air azure, gently caressing the mind