Days Are These

Ebon on what hour that should be still day. No quarter from the wind that blows here. Triturate what was tomorrow. That dust scattered and is lost upon the land. Perhaps in the clouds. Perhaps in that hint of rain they vow. Such is that place where withered roses go, every promise they once held, every shot glass downed but leaves one as parched as before. Stand before this place and watch every dream go there. – Mitsuo Tanaka Advertisements Continue reading Days Are These


What manner of creature am I? To afford such mistiness upon my eyes? Words that were once like every drop of dew, the very taste honey. Now just shadows that carry me into deepest night. Candles blown out from your window. They let the demons visit in dark corners. Every despair, every monster, every tear that drips. In every hour, nightmare. In every morn, left sleepless. Icy, still, buried. Then you disappear. – Mitsuo Tanaka Continue reading Haunted

Why Ghosts Hurt

My words were all the colors I’ve ever had. No easels, no canvas, no paint on my hands. My words have told of worlds I could never see. Clouds that form terrible serpents and the heroes that would fly upon gemed eels to slay them. My words have always meant something if I told her so. If I missed her. If I was thinking about her. If I felt sad she was having a bad day. Now they echo across dead keeps. Along ramparts that never held gaurds. Barren, dark halls that hold only ghosts of days past. No Christmas, … Continue reading Why Ghosts Hurt