Fortunately
you are not my muse

I've worn out muses
by the dozens
cast them aside
like chaff
and cherished the sorrow
that ensued

Sadness was my calling card
my tragic handshake
a testament to a life
gone wrong

Age improved me
I survived the madness
came back to life
gasping for air

And so to your door
to spin the wheel
of language
to glory in its intricacy

Two poets alive
in the same century
two restless souls
under one uneasy roof

We will survive our families yet
raise a toast
when the day comes
to the dear
and thankfully departed

We'll leave poetry
like confetti in our wake
and touch the holy stone
once or twice yet
in our lives

I pray it will be so.

Looking out past that horizon. A mirage appeared, everyone he had ever loved. So distant, like sleep on a nocturnal night.

He can't fall asleep, his dreams call to him.

People change, and time goes on. We run like wild horses, racing to a finish line that only means death, but the race goes on long after we reach it.
The world continues to spin, the plains will breathe and grow, and the wind will whistle for as long as long you start and end.

Our only reward is the race itself, and the winner is the one who believes they have won.
And life will go on.

What you said taught me something. How passionately you claimed to not care for me, but yet how much you hated me, gave me something.
A passionate disposition for not being a good person, but something real.
A truly realistic human being.

I've had this feeling lately, a feeling of not knowing what I'm doing, but no longer caring. Feels like the wild, full of danger and fear. Stupidity and stumbling.
Feel as though I'm a child all over again.
So much to be afraid of, but oh, so much to see.

I see and I love, but I close my eyes and I picture you.
It's folded, lost color, and burnt beyond recognition.
Each night I leave it on your doorstep.
And each day, I love.

But I always close my eyes again.