So...this is a totally not blog related in any way, shape, or form...but it was a product of my travels and something that I thought I'd at least give a little bit of life by posting it here, since I don't think I'll ever slam it, considering its more old school writing style.

But yeah...this was written late night in Venice after a revelation on a water taxi and a bit of Shakespeare earlier that day.


"Thus hath the candle."

It was then,
As I sat stripped on a Venetian ship
In a place I don’t belong.
Bantering to myself about cliché book titles,
And art pieces unfavorable,
When a temporary silence struck such humming grey matter,
In a way that set cold the clamoring,
chit chat of foreign words and chewed on street signs,
Into a blanket of remembrance.

It was a tragic rejection of Shakespearic proportion
That shook a part of my core I thought to be long ago salved.
It was as if the mere rocking of the weighted ship
Set sail with tumbling tourists in paper caps
Unhinged the broken bottle set to sea caught on wet rocks

And brought it back to me.

Alone and unnerved, the bottle sat heavy on my linen dress
Calling to be uncorked after a year of marine marinated waiting
So, with no one to tell me not, I looked deeply into the crystalline glass
Set opaque by sea salt
To see
Where a quiet creature sat.
White as ash and cast in a humble recline
A little lunar moth.

And in an instant, the placidity of the thrown about boat
Became muddled with wing beats born of a heart marooned
Stringing together a symphony of perfectly papered words
That broke membranes in my inner ear
In an effort to touch the most intimate parts of that forgotten soul
To say:

"Thus hath the candle singd the moath."
As if Shylock was my woes,
And the candle was you.
Something sought like the sunshine of winter days
I realized in the most tragic of ways
I am still bound.
Like a moth to the flame.