A skill learned through practice, breeds arrogance.

None, more so than art, where pauper becomes knight in his subjective.

And writers start to lose objective, of which they strived to make that night.
When sleeplessness drove sacrifice, less they may not wake up.

Let echo then these words in blind directive.
Unread, unfathomed, but still satisfied.

And let annoyance and revulsion play it's strings.
For a skull scraped by a saw, still sings.

Sometimes in life two souls intertwine.
Merged through the ether, linked for all time

Nobody looking from outside quite knows, fate's dashing rhythm, glorious prose.

Her, silk like fingers determine the dance
We weren't meant to meet through fell circumstance.

While threads in this ocean began to unwind.
Our connection through space remained just in our mind.

A story wound up, must some day unwind
A conclusion determined in this or next life

So a little more wide, and a little more grey.
The twin souls once thus parted, unite once again.

To conclude what was started on this mortal coil
From when you departed, we'll continue to grow.

We'll continue like this, just for a while
Then you'll keep what's yours, and I'll take what is mine.

And when all's said and done in this world of man.
We'll let fate's silky hand, to guide us once again.

As I peer out onto your tumbling waves
Mesmerised by your essence, I wonder,
How many lives have perished under.

Were your solemn rocks once colonized with native blood?
Or more recently, the couple that drowned, or the man who dived too shallow, or the young boy on holiday that thought he could brave you at your worst.  

Or the countless lost souls who chose you for their final moments, perhaps mesmerised just the same, reaching for peace beneath your depth.

And yet, you lure us back.  With respect, we approach your indifference, and countless joy you impart on adult and child.  But never forget, a blood oath must be paid, every once in a while.

An ode to a beggar, who sits on his stoop.
One can't study to fight when you're begging for food.
The best ways to **** will go over your head.
Taking a nap you'd much rather instead.

While the brave and the foolish go marching to war.
The beggar just sits, thinks about it no more.

Hail to you ol beggar, with no blood on your hands.
In your ***** rags you don't hide weapon plans.
Hail to you ol beggar, blessed are you in your stride.
Hail to you ol beggar, on the enemie's side.

Perhaps one day later when the boys become men.  
When those who are left, travel home once again.
Damaged or whole, they will perch on the stoop.
And the old, weary beggar will command his new troop.