Published in the Cal Poly Byzantium Anthology 2015
A house made from that found below its foundation.
Built up from the ground with profound imagination,
But, alas, all that rises must plummet back down
As the tides bring demise and the earth flattens out.
To prolong such a tragic and rapid collapse
Of each castle deemed “magic”—nostalgic perhaps,
I’d suggest building fortresses far up the beach
As a moat will not shield from the wield of the sea.
But despite its location each structure will fall
As the wind, with a grin, tears apart the Great Wall.
As a curious kid makes a curious kick
With a foot like a wrecking ball crushing through brick.
But out of the rubble some frame may remain
Of a vestige of glory with two trunkless legs.
With a shame in his heart the great sculptor created
A monument mocking the man that it praises.
False was that pride of old King Ozymandias;
An empire’s only as strong as its sand is.
All kingdoms rise from an unsteady ground.
They will fall all the same: piece by piece, pound for pound.
Then where lies the motive to ever construct
On a plane made of grains so innately corrupt?
The surge will not stop in its cruel reoccurrence.
Each castle we craft will collapse to the currents.
As man wages war against waves on the shore
With a pretense to win he, within, prepares for
That swift, shameless fall. What else could be planned?
A structure of sand is not structured to stand.
Published in California's Best Emerging Poets: An Anthology by Z Publishing House
The future danced across my mind
As the sun began its final dive.
I sauntered eastward, headed home,
Down cracked, familiar concrete roads.
A shadow lurked before my feet,
A specter, black and menacing
Resembling every bit of me
That could have been and was to be.
Reluctantly, I travelled on.
The silhouette spawned by the dawn
Was stretching as the daylight died.
Elastically, it pulled me tight.
There was no choice or chance to run,
To break from that opaque phantom.
My legs were bound now by its black
Chains of fate and choices past.
The sun broke the horizon’s line
And, in a grip of faltered time,
The ghost exploded all around.
Within its darkness light was drowned.
I carried forward, knowing well,
I strode the shadow of myself
And found a comfort in the night
That thieved from me the need for sight.
I gave into the blackened air
But morning brought this truth to share.
A truth which darkness must conceal:
The ghosts that host us are not real.