We can't find out what God wanted,
Unless we learn the definition of Good,
& being just that.

I could give you a million reasons to write a poem,
But I couldn't tell you how to do it.

What actions you have seen,
Displays why we are, a certain way.
How we accept and choose our consequences,
Defines how we live our lives.

I could give you a thousand words to write a poem with.
But I can't tell you what to write.

The dream,
Inside a dream becomes a set course.
A destination to achieve true happiness,
Something real & rare.

How we perceive values & morals.
Is how we view our choices & blend with time.

I could give you a hundred pictures to write a poem about.
But I cant tell you how you view the world.

We can find out what God wanted,
By teaching Good,
& being nothing but that.

Eventually time will tell us,
What life is.

Like the foreign affairs between,
Riddled solar winds & art's intimate reality.

Futhermore,
A flare, tossed in an ocean.
To reveal it's passionate blues.

That Jazz,
That once had roads to the soul.
A fresh, harmless flame,
Courted with florescent illuminations.

I accepted reform,
From love's secret venom.
To understand, how to find,
What I'm looking for.

Sooner or later,
This mystery becomes a simple answer.
A sleep-walking ritual to develop a meaning.
For why God, created evil too.

Eventually,
Life will show us,
What time it is.

Life could've been different.
Those muddy shoes,
Down that dirt road,
Winding into a gully.

Sometimes the rain makes it,
a river.
The townhouses always had symphonies,
Fogging the cold windows, at night.
The lyrics were concealed,
In the drooping wintergreens.
The vines stretched the brick for ages.

Life could've just been this way.
With this black bean dirt.
Beneath years of reformed concrete.

So I,
Could see it the way that I do.
This yellow moonlight, lynching the air,
In the earliest hours of morning.
And this pair of muddy shoes,
That I washed & put away.
Those days, were still in them,

As a quiet exposer of poetry,
I fantasize an enigma of colors.
A transition of calculated emotions,
From memories woven to the brain,
As a quilt, would be.

I have written on stones & brick.
Hoping somebody knew,
That I was there, once upon a time.

We were bred to defend & protect,
A kindness,
Crafted so rare,
To shield the good,
From Evil & it's hidden agenda.

It is I,
Who knows how we fix ourselves.
How we get justice,
For failed attempts to try.

How to restore faith,
In the lighthouses & buoys, out on the ocean,
With only a constant dance with the currents.

How to,
Enable ourselves,
To look another in the eye,
& see them for who they are.

And simply die & live
As the purest blue-blood.

It came with a passing breeze.
A snap, crackle- & sensual buzz.
The old man upstairs thought it as God,
Yelling to the sky, from his balcony.

The power's out now,
And everyone in the neighborhood was outside.
It was cold,
But warm enough to know that this could happen.

Life could one day be without an electrical spark,
Or just reserved, for the wealthy.

The minutes envelope into hours.
The end of the world wouldn't be so bad if people,
Actually sat down and listened to mother nature,
Hum her gifted tunes.

Maybe its just me.

Or maybe that old man was right.

Either way, the power's out.