An Answer Without Its Question (Or Door Hinge Butterflies)

I wonder if I can fly without wings
Or swim without gills
I wonder if I may exist simply as I am
An answer without its question

A butterfly can go anywhere and yet
It chooses to open the door for you



Wrinkled skin draws your eyes away from the
Twinkle gleaming in her dull eyes and the
Tinkle resonating in her trembling voice
Crinkled outside, beautiful in; which do you prefer?

For in my mind lies not a single doubt
Nor, with her, do I use my sight
Explore the prisoner trapped in time’s cage
Adore her, for she is the reason that I write


So I normally don’t leave little side notes on my poems and short stories, but I felt like I had to for this one. This poem is dedicated to my grandmother, who passed away just a little while ago. I love her, and I hope she rests in peace.


When I close my eyes, I dream of the stars
But when I’m by your side, I can reach them
And if they are but the lights of a car
Only for you would I pull down that gem

You teach me to see the bows in the rain
And to go dance through the torrent of tears
Even if I may slip on the terrain
From your lips still will your words quell my fears

Perhaps soon our fingers will intertwine
But for now I will simply be content
Residing in your heart, and you in mine
As we await for the foretold advent

Even if I know nothing about you
Still I love you, and nothing is more true

Diamond Dust

I watch as diamond dust

falls to the ground.

Softly and silently,

beautiful to the eyes

but chilling to the touch.

It’s scintillating shimmer

is out of place

with the dead trees around it.

The wind whispers in my ears,

nipping at my toes

as it blows into the distance,

leaving as quickly as it arrived.

Only a faint reminder is there

that it even existed.

The frosty air fills my lungs.

The snow freezes my bare feet

as I trudge along

this icy path.

I may slip,

and I may fall.

But this ice ignites passion,

and I will get up.

I will always get up.

Winter seems

immortal, infinite, endless.

But I know this isn’t true,

for in the divine desert of diamonds

lies a vivid patch of emerald.

Although feeble and frail,

it will outlast this boreal winter.

For when snow melts,

it is not water that is made.

It is spring.


As I stand in front of the grandest doors
With nothing but a coin in my pocket
And the remains of a soul that I store
I enter with my cowardly courage

Blinding lights reflect off of sequin coats
Smoke mixed with cheap perfumes cloud my wisdom
And, as the alcohol runs down my throat
On the board is where I place my last crumb

I thought I saw the future in those cards
I thought that the dice roll was my heartbeat
I thought that the dealer was a blessed bard
I thought I could sit in the devil’s seat

Those gambling chips have become my hit
The scent of cash a high blessed by the gods
And yet when I stop, I know I should quit
Yet I still ask myself, “What are the odds?”

All in vain, I try again: once, twice, thrice
This is a gamble; now I roll the dice



Plip, plop; the sky must be crying
Lip trembling in an attempt to stay bright
Whip up those clouds to be radiant and airy
Slip and you ruin everyone else’s delight

Rain pouring from the blacken firmament above
“Restrain your selfish sorrows,” chants the sky
Pain never goes unnoticed by the mother below her
Terrain mutters to the heavens, “Sometimes it’s okay to cry.”