I'm still laying in the tryst
in the triste
in the cold of heated passion
in the shadow of eclipse

A fleeting breeze cuts sharp and free
but it's not perfumed these days.
I may never leave this place.
And there's no one here but me.

The birds sing mating songs I envy,
With their beautiful simplicity.
Someone's blocking out my light
And there's no one here but me.

Our stains adorn my sheets of leaves;
A patina to the fruitless the tree
We planted to watch grow together
And there's no one here but me.

My shadow's seeped out of my skin,
Reflecting the without within.
I knew, I Knew we'd reunite
And there's no one here but me.

In the tryst,
In the triste,
In your purgatorial absence
I can't cross the river Styx.

To those who've made lucrative professions of false professions
Who pretend to portend
Imitators of prognosticators
May the light of truth burn the tongue of deceit
and eclipse proclaimed falsehoods
Lying liars low
And exalting the wisdom of silence

I dip the quill of intention into a font of temptation.
I write pretty words on a blank page
To watch them all get sullied.

I draw the ink of inspiration from well of Russian toska.
I write boleros on a cluttered page
.watch ink smudge and fade.

The Muse that moves me still eludes me
And I'll chase her dragon ever more.

I dip the quill of intention into a font of temptation.
I write pretty words on a blank page
To watch them all get sullied.

You'll never get to experience the depth of the still water until you're submerged.
The iceberg of the mind...
There are no mistakes, only lessons manifesting in various degrees of challenge.
Adversity is the crucible through which character is shaped.
Let my equanimity be mistaken for indifference,
as my tolerance is for acceptance.
Because the mountain piercing the heavens is actually a dormant volcano.

I'll be content in this contemporary contempt because it's only temporary.

But I'll still paint you in my memories
a vibrant monochrome.

Sometimes I sit and wonder about the strangers who read my life.  
Do you think I’m using rhetoric?
Do you think I’m spinning webs?
Do you think it’s all words spewed from a wandering mind of fantasy?
Am I?

There are three sides to every story:
That is yours, mine, and the truth.
If I recorded every moment
and shared them all
With you
Would you see my lense as skewed?
Undoubtably it is.
Can a man really be objective?
One can try,
But there is no try
Only do or do not.

I wish I wrote fiction.
Maybe I’ll give that a try