This candle
Has no wick
For the light
Which keeps on
Burning

Between
Each stuttering
Flicker
Of my dancing
Shadow inside

When flames
Must take
Their shape
Against what fear
Has chosen

As starbursts
Newly kindled
From an open
Jar
Which sits

Near dusks
And winter moons
Through windows
Wide
And empty

Contained
Like wax with reason
To dispel
All dark
Outside

Ignited
By this faith
As I flare
Those inner
Demons

Finding
Blazing torches
Among paths
I’d never
Take

If not
For miracles’ sake
At the hands
Of swollen
Embers

Where tongues
And second chances
Are the hopes
Which guide
My path

And prove
Some glow exists
Despite
Me sitting
Pretty

Like votives
Bearing flashes
Of a soul
That’s meant
To spark.

– J. Pigno

There is
No greater motive
Than a fear
Of losing God

As I’ve struggled
With that question
To this point
My faith exists

With nooses
Hung as doubts
For claims
No man can answer

Except
In blessed scripture
Shot down
By daily needs

Where pain
Has given truth
Of a word
Which offers solace

Against our
Living hemorrhage
That cycles
Blood as choice

Through constant
Wounds of war
Like lies
To keep us guessing

If heaven
Has our reason
For enduring
Sin as flesh –

The very hurt
Which asks
To carry rage
As crosses

Confessing
Every moment
As our fate
That’s nearly lost

To anger
With our ways
Even when
All paths meander

Across
This knowing prison
Within
Each certain heart

That keeping
Hope is sane
Despite
What demons linger

As we fumble
For our purpose
Through a dark
Of endless skies

Starless
Like that wish
Which misses
What is beaming

Beyond
Our empty chances
On an Earth
Obscured by black.

Meaning
Isn’t seeing

But a veil
We cannot lift.

– J. Pigno

No one
Really knows
What the fuck
They’re even
Doing

Despite
What lies persistent
Convince
These efforts
Wrong

As works
Concealing doubt
With their meanings
True
Or special

Beyond
Such lives dependent
On those skills
Of needy
Men

Like a public
Fallen weak
To that answer
In their
Illness

Or savior
Swearing respite
By relief
Through mortal
Hands

Bringing
Instant death
Where genius
Bears
Its triumph

And hubris
Offers vengeance
Through learned
And expert
Crafts –

Nonsense
If you ask
Our God
Who isn’t
Begging

But telling
All our artists
Their truth
Should only
Last,

Not doctors
Or that task
To employ
For sake
Of reason

And money
Hanging desperate
Over heads
Whose neck
Is bent

Selling
Easy grace
When they peddle
Fame
And knowledge

While brains
Are always telling
Of a hope
That’s always
Best

Among
Our quiet faith
That’s muddled
As we
Wrestle

With jobs
Which only happen
From roles
We never
Plan.

– J. Pigno

I surrender
To this angle
Of a fear
Which can’t be
Tamed

That struggle
Never questioned
When we want
Our reason
Why

From God
In heavens place
Whose shape
Has deemed
Existence

All worship
Rife with error
For the sake
Of seeming
Wrong

So rules
And regulations
May prove
One easy
Exit

Through margins
Thick as borders
Like edges
Sick
And drawn

Where answers
Made of faith
Spell doubts
You just can’t
Measure

If the math
Is always argued
To yield
Our anxious
Thoughts

And explain
What demons
Death
Has issued
By each number

While we suffer
Asking penance
Through the instants
Claimed
As blessed –

Equations
Solved in jest
Without help
Or certain
Bridges

Along lines
That span forever
With degrees
Now grown
Apart.

– J. Pigno

I chase
Derivative death
From a feeling
Not quite special
Which kills me
Far too often
In the sense
There is no cure

For daydreams
Calling bluffs
Of a sadness
Nearly common
Like falling ill
At moments
When our truth
Is hard to take

Passing out
On chairs
Expecting
Final answers
With remedy
To this panic
That builds
Upon our woes

Seeking
Easy cures
Beyond this
Daily practice
Of an empty prayer
Which buries
Our bodies
Fallen sick

As medicine
Keeping faith
While the symptom
Offers solace
Instead of
Plaguing instants
Where happiness
Hurts us more

Like chores
To mind such pain
Through hope
So surely wasted
From experience
Truly joyless
By the scares
Within our soul –

A slow
And public end
As I narrate
Without reason
My sudden
Crucifixion
That’s routine
Each day I wake

Awaiting
Bloodless sweat
From the scars
You cannot witness
But learn
Are merely weeping
By perception
Standing still

Though I argue
Flesh is fake
Upon learning
God is distant
As that grief
Within my lashes
Across this back
Exposed

Tells of
Mortal woes
We share
In wounds together
As light
Our lifetime passes
Never gains
Its reason why.

– J. Pigno

My mind
Is a terrible place
Where I never
Learn
Without feeling

What masked
And obscure
Knowledge
Makes tomorrow
Seem unsure

Though I wrestle
Death on page
While this inkwell
Stains
With anguish

Each sentence
Raw and beating
For the heart
That’s bound
To pause

And speak
At slowing pace
Of a lost
Yet telling
Rhythm

Bleeding voice
From passion
When the truth
Has fallen
Black

Among bones
And precious filth
Housing words
In tombs
Transparent

Which unearth
My final grievance
As a man
Whose phrase
Is dirt

Beneath
Such rotten dreams
That demand
I argue
Freely

Out of grounds
Below
Deep soil
Which imprisons
Who I think

Are the fears
And nervous dreams
I can dig
In hells
Unworthy

Where escaping
Empty pleasures
Is the lie
I long
To touch

Repeating
Hurt as weak
But revealing
God
As pressure

Like a stone
Atop my body
Weighing down
This time
I seek –

Wishes
Not fulfilled
By the choice
We make
If trying,

Cause the answer
Isn’t living

For perhaps
It’s somewhere
Else.

– J. Pigno

I’ve lost
What words remain
In this dull
And somber white
Which builds
Through raw
Indifference
My vague
Yet growing chill

That speaks
Like stoic snow
With a blank
Yet real expression
Of such bare
Though humble
Willingness
To confess
These sudden flakes

As a storm
Not wholly armed
By those winds
And glacial padding
Which lord
Their cold
Disinterest
Over phrases
Nearly warm

Believing
Fires wane
Where this wood
Is always dampest
For the time
Our phrases
Stumble
Among chances
Dark as night

Where stars
And other light
Find God
Between each
Sentence
Like truths
From barest branches
Or a meaning
Meant to last

When our fear
And broken wish
Of that lush
But bitter landscape
Falls softly
On this passage
While the deer
Escape
Its wrath

Chasing
Empty paths
Pursuing dreams
Unwritten
As each poet
Faults
Their maker
For losing hope
Beneath

Shoveling
What is said
Like digging
For some answer
During winters
Uninspired
With a whimper
Old
And weak.

Those tracks
Cannot be seen
As the air
Blows ice
Unwilling,

No soul
Or frigid whisper
Can find
My voice
That’s stale.

– J. Pigno

I won’t even
Try to hide
These changes
Growing evident
By a smile
Held inside me
Since the moment
You said yes

Despite
Those nervous claims
Out of fear
Our hurt should linger
Where pasts
Are always waiting
For their reason
To exist

And conquer
Second dates
While the chance
Of nearly winning
Is a triumph
Come acceptance
By the cost
Our losses chance

Threading
Common fates
From the tears
Which bargain service
At the beckon call
Of angels
Whose challenge
Brings us life

Out of grace
We can’t deserve
Despite such
Woven pictures
On horizons
Fading quickly
And approaching God
Possessed

Repeating
Choices made
So our failures
Learned as lessons
Are the mouthpiece
For these answers
Which secure
This happy home

Before
It’s even saved
From a dream
We can’t be certain
Is a night
Beyond that moment
When a kiss
Brought futures bright

Through stars
Within our midst
Among these scenes
Victorious
Convinced that love
Has endings
Like films
Shot by mistake.

– J. Pigno

What is loved
Always ends
In tears
For the sake of us
Learning
We’re worth it

Through each pain
And collected
Experience
By a sum
Of incredible
Chance

Just knowing
Our moment
Passed
To create
That expanding
Division

At a distance
Hinged
On emotion
Which elicits
Truth
From our hearts

For the turn
Such minds
Can’t grasp
Across decades
Gapped
With decision

Where freedom
Forces
Our nature
As a circumstance
Damaged
By time

To delude
Those emotions
Wished
Were expressions
Bound
For repeating

While believing
Dreams
Of our leisure
Are the answers
Held
Near death

Assuming
One final
Breath
Between hope
And a future
Wasted

Are the lies
We’ve tried
In question
Out of fear
Of truths
Untold

Like a tide
Most souls
Can’t wade
But instead
Fall deep
When choosing

These differences
Called
By religion
As our testament
Written
For man.

– J. Pigno

These days
Are short in number
From the time
Our minds can
Realize
All worry
Is a wasted effort
Which hastens
Nothing
But pain

Despite
How hearts can change
Over spans
Of years
Turning decades
Into journeys
Riddled with failure
That is purpose
Taking
Its toll

From balance
Playing our parts
As agony learns
What we witness
Is sacrifice
Making us
Better
To admire
Death
As a whole

Like deer
Within endless woods
Quiet
Content to be waiting
For their hunter
Bound
To be killing
Such fragile
Souls
That are weak

Upon faith
With gentle hooves
Among leaves
So fallen
And desparate
To be one
With this ground
Below them
As they struggle
Through colorful bliss

Proving
Hurt doesn’t end
As loss
Is a season
Grieving
Where beauty
Is cyclically
Fated
By nature
Alive but brief.

– J. Pigno