a writer's lair

Icy morn dies under scornful sun.
Frost is fried alive.
Snow creeps into the shadows.
Ice drowns in itself.

But when the sober moon chases the sun
from the sky and returns to his height,
the frost resurrects,
the snow slinks back,
and the ice revives once more.

I feel air under my feet

And I know I'm not walking on it.

No, I'm not falling or flying either.

Someone hung me out here.

The clouds rub by wiping me clean

as would an army of sponges.

Some might call this bliss.

Alone. Not a sound. Not a sight.

The distinct sense of nothingness

is pervasive. And here I remain

hung in the air.

Some might call this hell.

Alone. So alone. The agony

of absolutely nothing eats

away at the inner soul of the

man. And here I remain

hung in the air.

I feel air under my feet.

Air is under my feet.

Eyes fixed on the lamb
life bleeds away from Him
only His pain stays
in His veins

Eyes fixed on the lamb
last affliction of His life
open torment of His soul
into His heart plunges death

left alone
all alone
meeting death
all alone

soon all death will die
all sin will
be crushed under
almighty
christ's
holy
terror!
hell
answers
now,
ignorant of its fate.

Blink

Camera wide shot
Blink

Too much to take in
Blink

Light-bulb lanterns droop
over oak tables
Blink

Brown fan set the
morning mood with its moan
Blink

Too much to take in
Turn off the camera

Blink