The Blade of the Sea sat alone in a museum for eons,
its true majesty forgotten.
Labeled as an old pirate's sword
it was shoved rudely to the back of a crowded display.

No one ever payed attention,
even as the oceans dried up
and the dunes swallowed cities.
No one thought to check
why the air always smelled of brine
in its presence.
Or wondered why it never dulled or rusted.
After all, there were other objects more fantastic
within those same walls.
And it was simply a useless relic.

But one day, the intern
a clumsy young chap,
was tasked with straightening up the display.

Of course,
he was drawn to the glimmering crown of Poseidon,
and took to it with polish and rag,
but incidentally also jostled and nicked himself
on that poor forgotten blade.

His bloody finger tasted of brine
which concerned him at first
before his curiosity piqued
and his hand found the hilt.

At the touch of his skin,
saltwater erupted!
Geysers shot through the walls
taking down the museum
and filling the basins,
the trenches and gulfs.

When the waves finally subsided,
he was left afloat in the blue
with his grip still wrapped tightly
around the Blade of the Sea.

And yes, he was alone
and would probably die eventually.
But for the briefest of moments,
that intern held the power of all oceans
in his shakey pale hand,
and basked in a world rejuvenated.

Everyday, pieces are chipped at
eroded, carved away
by the relentless waves
biting wind and rain.

Proud cliffs once stood proud
over sunken land and sea,
but now crumble beneath the weight
of their new reality.

They were never meant to stand forever.
Like the waves, they must rise and fall,
trapped in the earth's great overhaul
and natural recycling protocol.

I pluck pieces of errant verse from my mind,
fling them at the paper
and see if they stick.

Because some days you can be meticulous,
plan out everything word by word,
while others require a less polished touch
and the main goal is simply to put something on the page.

Footsteps thumping
colors flashing
streams of stomping feet.
Not quite a mob
but no ones strolling,
and no ones' more than grumpy.

We're all wide-eyed,
staring outward
at the swarming crowd.

Within this masquerade
you may find the familiar faces
of people you've never met,
or those of strangers
who you'll be friends with from now on.

What'll you find
​at the convention this year?

Everything around
is gorgeous and I can't stop
screaming babbling!

The key specter, Telemanen, walks through worlds
trailing the sounds of chimes behind it.

It has no will to be silent
though it rarely uses words.
For it is chained to its loneliness and hope.

Draped in innumerable metal links,
the keys it seeks have become its armor
its lips and teeth.

Each discarded piece of manmade metal
may hold the power to send it home,
to a world that's remained hidden for millennia.
So with every footfall
its choice is clear.
To collect every key that falls in its path
and use them to cross the dimensional barriers.

One day
it will find its way to the sweet embrace of home.
Nothing will halt this task.

Torment and torture have become so inelegant.
Yes, holding a knife to a person's throat will scare them
no matter how they deny it,
but when you do finally drive that blade into their chest
and their soul drains from their eyes
that's it.
They are lost to you.
A broken toy that you tore apart
and enjoyed while it lasted.

This is such an outdated solution for your cravings.
A waste of a perfectly good unwilling volunteer.
The truest way to pump from them every last drop of precious fear
is to never let their torment cease.

Allow them to feel that final impact
the blade's cut
the creatures many teeth tearing them apart,
and let them think that it is the end for them.
That this scream and gurgle will be their live's conclusion.

But do not allow their soul to soar off to whatever heaven or hell awaits them.
Bring them back.
It doesn't matter how.
Just anchor them to their broken flesh and bone,
their agonizing mind.
Then they can be your plaything for as long as you see fit.
And you can subject them to as many horrors as your twisted little mind can concoct.

Why when I try and draw a breath
does if feel like the air is frozen solid.
I know it's there,
swirling around my flailing fingers
and tousling my hair.
But it refuses to lend me its lightness,
to fill my lungs
and sooth the frantic gasps
that sound like frantic shrieks inside my ears.

I saw the golden-handed man again today.
He was sitting on a park bench, alone,
all ragged and grey.

I'd been to afraid to look before,
and so had missed so clearly
the look he always wore.

A gentle smile beneath kindly eyes
and wrinkles that crinkled and creased.
And it pained me to pass him by.

So when I left work for the day
I went back there and explored
this man who'd been so ostracized.