The midnight smiles.
I write words.

Pockets of emptiness,
sealed symbols.

Absence does not make
the heart grow fonder.

It lends distance,
and forgetting.

Love, so much
over-used.

Love is, in truth,
really love for self.

A moment, this
is what I have.

A small space of
time that I claim.

It is mine, to waste
or to cherish.

A noise outside.
Not sure what it is.

Something abusive,
something harsh.

The midnight smiles.
I write words.

If the silence calls, answer it.
Seeping like smoke
i
n
t
o
the veins.
Drained blood vessels
f
i
l
l
e
d
with chemicals.
The body is what it is.
A skin filled skeleton
motivated to carry on.
Even if the
s
o
u
l
asks to be released.

A little boy is playing in his backyard.
Plastic knights and make-believe castles.
His imagination flourishes, thrives;
magic empires he creates in his world.
He does not think about tomorrow.
He does not worry about anything.

I wish I was him again.
Start all over.

Not possible, however.
We can only
w
a
l
k
ahead,
never back.

Castles in the air. They seem to be hung there
on strings of invisible contemplation's. Shimmering
in clouds dappled with false expectations. The sun
opens the windows with embraces of expectations.
We are inside these floating shelters, not inhibited.
No boundaries contain our focus. This the statement
of our shared perspective, our call to salvation as
we jump through the sunlight that captures us.

A war begins. We did not begin it. We now had
to decide if it was ours. To decline would be a
perception of awareness. You and I determine
the extent of our participation. Instead of
succumbing to our weakness, we stand with
anger at the waste of time. One day there
will be peace. We believe this. We feel only
the strength of our flying imaginations.

Partially, I wonder if our mutual pretensions
can manufacture the serenity we've proclaimed.
You laugh at me. It hurts. This begins the only
exit we achieve. Strange how stone can be so
deeply grievous. Odd how "we" can so aptly
be given to retreat. Off you go, and I hate
the sound of the departure. But regardless,
I shall not be concerned. For you see, it does
not matter the configuration. I can close the
curtains and still be as strong as need be.

Flickering like a pill bottle without a cap,
in the air castles of my dying secret world.

Farther away, where the cars
are all painted dull black,
        and the
         leaves on the ground
           have
           already died,
      that is where the
       walls are being built.

Strong walls. Walls of
impregnable fortitude.
    Walls that will
        never be
          overcome.

Behind them, that
is where I shall be.
        Hidden.
         Forgotten.
Put aside to live
      with all the
        other people
         behind these stones.

We will be quiet here.
Dwelling thoughts lost
        in managing
        individual funeral pyres.
Outside these fortified rocks
      will be the footsteps
      of people who do
       not care to see
         anything beyond
         what they feel is
         marvellously important.
Pecking fingers on their
       cell phones
       in their peculiar, solitary
       way of being a
          "community".

We might hear them
    from time to time,
distant sounds
    that penetrate the
      rock fed monster
      we have built to
       surround our
         last moments.

Water falls in a
    rainfall of passion.
Cups hold liquids
    that are never drunk.
We share the same
    determined falling,
ending up the same
    kind of dead.

Goodbye people
      outside our walls.
Thank you for
       peering at us
        once in awhile.
And now the Biblical gates
       are opening.
Now the walls around
       us are shattered.
Leaving here, we
    become the pictures
        on an internet page;
where people will
      write R.I.P. in
        the comments.
A like button
    will be pressed,
       as they move on
        to the next entry.

Conversations over.
Memories diffused.

Stones from the wall
    fashioned into tombstones.
Names etched on them,
       and some plastic flower arrangements
         all that remains.

The dreams
        still happen,
         as they will,.

through mists
that flicker in my eyes.

And even though there
is knocking at my door,
I'm busy
with my own hemisphere.

The glow of the planet
shines in red and white
flags dashing in the
early dawn of perspective.

Even so.
        My thinning body
         cares only for itself.

Dragons may be fantasy,
        but reality still
         insists it is happening.

A seashell in the desert.
A piece of sand to a pearl.
A groaning, moaning,
population
is
stressing
about
a
war.
Does not matter which one.
There always is one happening
somewhere
on
this
"if I **** you,
it means we
are right"
planet.
Solemn faces in the news,
bewailing
this
or
that
atrocity.
Shaking heads on couches
certain their
propaganda is correct.

But wait. In these
murderous
places,
I hear
the
children of the morning
waking up afraid.
Nervous little eyes
dimmed
by
the
rubble
they
share.

The last wind of winter has ceased its power.
It is memory now, and has no message to give.

The rains of spring have replaced the snow.
And spatter insistent tunes upon the roof.

From the ground, the plants have burst out.
Reminders of the cycle of life and renewal.

Early flowers busy in their own serenity.
Splashes of colour that arrive in splendour.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

I find myself sitting on my balcony.
Surrounded by the discrimination of life.

Sighing gently to the pattern of the rain,
singing softly the songs of emerging spring.

Patterns of raindrops that hit the mind in
mud puddles of dank self imposed denial.

They are a growing source of cleansing
which shall shatter, for now, the winter grey.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

Standing up, I become once again myself.
Moaning in unison with the rain, captivated

by the thoughts of what the waters bring.
I am entirely open to fountains of rebirth.

Vindictive tugging of thought interferes
with the cherished sunshine of awareness.

Rushing fiercely into the rain,
I pull each flower from the ground.

O falling rain, cleanse the dirt of the heart.

If
only every
lip would clap
in tones of intensity,
what
sort of
world of hatred
would we have created?
Dozens
of trembling
lips would speak
of what was coming.
And
what is
the arrival we
seek with eager fingers?
What
gold leafed
book of stories
do we feel growing?
It
must be
the open door
that calls for resistance.
Clearly
one thing
leads to another,
so it always is.
Think
of all
the dropping glass
that opens and closes.
Dozens
of stomping
feet in tune
intone the new song.
We
were singing
in heckled harmony
the eternal jungle tune.
I
tried to
find an answer
to a period unhindered.
I
wanted to
grow fresh arms,
flapping in dry heaves.
Stick
the needle
in the arm
and grow no more.

Isolation, those retreating seconds
      before vacancy settles in.
Sedentary drifting, perception
      in a thousand and one spaces.
I live here. That is something
      to celebrate, I suppose.
For a man must be somewhere
      and this is the situation
        which I am occupying.
An electric fan is rotating
      itself around the room of
      hollowness that sharply defines
      the brick walls of motivation.
Aspects of silhouettes tantalize
the intellect with opened drawers
      stuffed with the debris of
        other generations.
I'm confidant in
      almost nothing
       and so I
       grit my teeth
      in lines of
      indifference.
Seek only truth.
That's the line of thinking
I've been taught to employ.
      But which truth?
Which particular obscurity
is to be the one followed?
      Best to not decide.
      Best to stay undetermined.
      Let the precipitation drip
      down into the barrel.

The windows want washing,
the floor needs to be swept.
Dishes clutter the sink,
and my morning has begun.

The cat is playing, rushing
here and there in a frenzy
of chaotic feline energy.

I'm terminal. That is the
word I've avoided so far.

Coming to terms with
the finality of existence.

Terminal. Dying.

Dying. Terminal.

The phone rings and I
rush to answer it. Some
friend who wants to chat.
See how my day is going.
We chatter and promise
to get together soon.

Avoid the topic of the day.
The prognosis delivered
like a lukewarm pizza on
a foggy summer afternoon.

The chores are done. I feel
a sense of pleasure that I
can sit down in my chair.

Sip from my cup of coffee.
Drop an Ibuprofen into
my eager mouth, swallow it.
That will fix everything,
of that I'm assured.

Terminal. What an odd
sound that is to make.

They have provided me
a definition to aspire to.
A state of being that is
mine and mine alone.

As a boy I played with toys.
As a man I want to do so again.

Start fresh. Make different choices.

Renew and rejuvenate this
cancer ridden body that
surely does not belong to me.

Close my ears to voices that
say 'oh, I know how you feel.'

'No, you don't, ' I whisper.

'You who are indefinite
can not really understand
the message of a definite
time left to open your eyes.'

Terminal.
Terminal.
Terminal.

Isn't it funny how the sun
still rises in the morning
and sets in the evening?

Soft spoken words are heard
in the chambers of the strings
hiding
in
the
light.
The shining flags do not
flutter
in
the
thunderstorm.
Hanging wet and limp,
they drop failure
into
the
mud.

I want to remember
only the good dreams.
Celebrate only those
things that make
me smile.

Ahead lies the
limping man as he
deteriorates
into
nothingness.
Lying on a bed
trapped in his
goodbyes;
his focus on
the memories
left to him.

I will not be
the man I used
to be.

I will not be
strength
or
hope.

These I shall not
be able to offer.

Let him shut his eyes.
Let his skin bristle,
burn, evaporate
into the
sliding abyss
of what must be.

My Jesus, I trust in You.

This I say with my lips.
Jesus, my fear betrays this.
I am weak,
         weak,
           so very weak.
Tears that trickle
from within my soul
    do not put faith
       in You.

Help me, Saviour.
    Mercy, please
    show me mercy.

I am reminded
of strong devotion;
precious confidence
        felt for You.

Lead me back to this.

      Lord, there is
an illness in my body.
A physical weakness
      that aches in its
        yearning for
          Your truth.

I surrender.
       I submit.
My Jesus, let
     me give this
     sickness to You.

Lay it on Your altar,
    lay it at your feet.
Release it from me,
    remove the doubts.

My Jesus, I trust in You.

In the night, the same light-bulb burns in the room,
shimmering like a falling star. In spite of that your

humour opens new avenues of torn eyelids trying
to capture the second by second charms of the circus.

I stand like a symbol between open and closed, muscles
hurting from sitting too long. Needing to evaporate the

marching army of belittled statements sharing the
same burnt popcorn from the same plastic bag.

War was declared, not too long ago. You declared it
and than left me to cover the flag with my disappointment.

My hands wielding so much power to maim whatever I will.
Do you still believe in blasphemous words? Do you still

tremble when a man rumbles against your body? Cupboard
doors are closed, but that is just as one would expect. Inside

them are the cans of pretense lined up like coins in a pocket.
I expect nothing anymore. You give out candy to the children,

grabbing it back before they can eat it. This is the slipping of
my faith. The stumbling of my feet when I try and walk through

the contradictions you have paraded. We might never talk
in any manner again. That would be like sliding into the

car and starting the engine. Waiting for the roar of rushing
air that would escape from the tires. It's hurting. Must be

the light-bulb burning out. Replacing it would cost too many
situations. I'd rather not tell you anything. I'd rather let the

ongoing noise of the battle rage on. Cover myself with a
blanket and pretend to sleep, taking a drag of my cigarette.

The stillness of
    sunlight
     grasping to be free
      of the clouds.
Puddles on the ground,
    hinting at the
rain that fell in the night.
These are
the abstractions
that stroke the
fondling of my thoughts.
I am firmly entrenched
      in my solitude,
      yet there are still
       a thousand voices
        in my head.
They try and
speak to me,
but with triumph,
they are ignored.
Silent inside,
where the knives
    of shunning
       do not matter.
Stopping to
     centre myself
      on the stones
       and rocks
        that surround
         the heart.
Softly release them.
Anticipate nothing,
which lets serenity begin.
This moment, this
      tiny blot of time,
I have decided
      to give up suffering.
Allowing only
the sunlight
to condition myself.
There, in that
    frosted glass of
     being nothing,
      is where I feel
       only peace.