Love
is wasted
on the loved.

My existence flickers,
but only in my own mind-
I seem to be forgetting reality,
and the memories I've captured
are finding ways to escape the jar.
I chase them through the dew-speckled fields,
but they deceive me every time.

And sometimes I stop,
and fling myself to the ground -
roll to face the stars,
and nearly drown in my own tears,
and ask

"Why?"

To live as an artist,
   but die as a man

Dust forever chasing
  —what heaven began

(Center City Philadelphia: January, 2015)

She was your water,
But I could see the salt.

She was your heartbeat,
But I'd spilled the blood.

She was your siren,
But I was the shipmate.

She was your song,
But I knew all the words.

She was your heaven,
But I'd faced the hell.

She was your star,
But I could feel the heat.

She was the moon,
And I was Mercury.

I was always closer,
But she always felt the light.

I was your best friend,
But she was yours.

Fulness
is a burden
such lightness
is emptiness