Maybe she will comeback
to see what she’s been missing. Maybe
he will see that
she never left in the first place.

Maybe today will be different. Today
they will applaud your opinion.
to see what others see about you
maybe.  They will see it your way.

To come and play among the trees.
Maybe she’ll hold your hand. Tell you
you are not as strange as you think.
Maybe they will open their eyes

Accepting. They will invite you
she will embrace you. Maybe
words won’t lie when they speak
But they do. And she won’t.

“Rain clouds, come back to play!”

He falls.
He breathes.
Stop trying to fix him.
He's not broken.

He is the lie, living truth
so you all can hide
and believe in your fears.
This time you hurt him a little to hard,
so with your protection, he disappears.

At times, he has forgotten how to dream.
He is what time cannot tell without death,
and with his back to the sun,
his time has been told,
showing him a fear he can't hold.

Although he is gone,
his memories wanders near,
forever to wrestle with
what she hopes he feels
but will never hear.

A tender apparition hovers proud,
although she cannot see its pristine placement.
Now the scared sheep have no more protection,
For once, he lets them feel wasteland
and taste it.

Looped faucets
Chrome and hanging
Pinned sleeves of the veteran
Trying to remember what it was like
To wash up

And the tears hung
On swollen lips
Inside the mind
Of love's broken dreams

And he cried . . .
He cried inside
Of a delicate mind
Unable to hear voice
Unable to comprehend time

. . . and the clock struck midnight
Yet nobody knew . . .

oh, detracted, exalted train on unconscious tracks!
how can one so unwielding, so unyielding, so ******* unrevealing
dare blemish purity of the sacred?
unattainable ideal that the actualized only dream of explaining!
how dare you!

As summer dies
and new lives arise,
  he sits on a swing in sea of sand
alone.

slowly swaying to and fro
the grace of a naked tree limb
in Fall’s gentle breeze
pondering truths and “what ifs,”

Carefully with a course hand,
he crushes a dry red rose,
and as the crimson flakes of ash
crumble and slip through his fingers
it all becomes clear.

Through the clouds’ whispers,
he stares up in to the pale moonlight
and discovers how to smile again.

Satired attempt of release. I give in.  I fall. . .
Still uncertain of radical advances in spirit: society’s breached birth of the familiar
Bound and gagged, clung electrical beauty transpired in beads of the dis-pristine

I unravel.  I create. Torn from all known peace in chaotic slumber; I am preserved.
*****.  My sonata spent like the lost cries enveloped in simplicity.
And it cries.
It cries for what it doesn’t know or understand
A seizured wall of insecurity left blind to the rest,
and sometimes infurity.
*****. Held. It smiles for now,
Wondering what comes next.

I am drying and damp and deep in trying
to hold your fist instead of your hand.
You pull me closer to get far apart.
I have bled words and language
for your unhappiness and my fears
and now your gone with all my tears.

Your ghost is my lover
falling after your grave and smiling.
I am a field of war and trying is my enemy
covered in soot and grey ash.

My war without purpose and yet I stay.
To walk away and take with the town,
and a thousand warriors lay their arms down.

The jazz begins.
Sitting on leather, my glass is full –
the beast of simple pleasure.

Dwelling on struggle,
Still and sitting and sipping and trying
to take apart my heart
and sharpen its springs;
I’m sprung.
Noticing now I end, where I have begun.