I used to be obsessed with the idea
that the stars we saw at night were
mostly already dead
Like everything was as lost
and as inevitably hopeless
as I felt I was
But this turned out to be another legend
Most of them are still there
and won't explode
for some time
and maybe I was disappointed
that the universe
wasn't as dark
as it appears to me.
What I like most about you
is that you
can turn things like that around
when you explain
how we're made up of materials
from some primordial
atomic cataclysm
that sent particles
in a billion different directions
until they reformed
and made
the sun
and the stars
and the planets
and that the entire spectrum
of our existence
was brought forth
from these events
and
I should consider myself lucky
that the universe
went to all that trouble
to make you for me.

I hear echoes that have no voice,
Sad before the vaulted tongues
Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears
The sour milk of pressed pictures
And sooted lights of lime
And the golden knobs taste
Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes.
Must the babe be chosen
By its mother?

The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

I hear echoes that have no choice,
But to skim the moated land
And wash well eyes with leaven walls
That tease and **** the sum to crushing
Columns lifted shoulder
High by zeros of kneeling numbers
Worming in bedded slumber.
Must the maker of builders
Be dismantled?

*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls
And the chasm shout shall dig our graves,
Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six
And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.

Springtime Had Melted,
Within Summer's Newfound Noon,
The Crickets Had Chirped,
Though The Evening Was Faroff,
Lurking Within The Blue Sky

The Scent Of Lush Lawn,
Had Permeated The Air,
The Sparrows Had Sang,
Harmonizing With The Breeze,
And The Finches Beside Them

The White Clouds Had Crawled,
Pulling Themselves Past The Sun,
Casting Shade Upon,
The Tops Of The Greenest Trees,
Who Had Whispered Summer's Hymn

I no longer exist in this world,
I've faded into a
Shade of grey.
Walking the streets alone,
Bearing all my pain,
No purpose to fulfill
And no reason to maintain.
I have my thoughts all in a row,
I walk this street as a shadow.
Nothing can be seen around the bend,
I'm slowly awaiting the end.

She stood there waiting for a love letter
That would never arrive ...

...because it had never been written

Arbiter of sun—
The dogma of run on days,
White, seductress moon.

You come around
And make me feel,
Like I don't want to feel,
As if the only way is your way,
What am I to think?  How can I heal?
Are all majestic colours impishly yours?
I walk alone on glare streets of harsh silence,
In rushing crowds of coldness, darkest and deep
Loneliness, you have made mourn of sun
My punisher, you have stolen music
Out from under my fumble hands,
Your eyes are like confusion,
My heart has nil defense,
I wait for you to let me go,
My hopeless prayer,
But I am undone
No, I never will
Be known, nor
Your only
One.

Last words with her,
So indifferent, so short,
The spoken tongues lashed
Indecipherable, unearthing
Doom, whitewashing the truths,
Forgotten blues of California sky,
Abandoned in that glean, garish glare
Of yellow sun,
            Fearing naught, the dark moon
Would soon arrive, taking place of all
Our glazed, lost, light.

I have seen her playing
With light, edging her hair,
In crescents so fair.

I have watched her fingers
Twirl and twine, beaming gold,
Threshing precious hold.

I have witnessed the taming
Of the sun's rays, captured,
Spinning in rapture.

And I feel for the pale moon
Who offers his frail, vestige light,
While she sleeps at night.