it must be magic
how you take my darkness and
turn it into fire

- p. winter

people always leave without knowing
their footprints always stays

angelic auras dance through heaven
as death's dark glance
awakens feeling
tender cold touch
of quickly fading reality
of what hope is there
in disintegration

captivated by poetry
hints of immortality
not in it for the money
or material satisfaction
for that too,
is,
disintegration

oh then where
is peace to hold
please don't pretend
you've found the gold
i've been to church
the temple too
and in them i've found
nothing true

None can live
with fading hope
oh the atheist lies
with life
she can't cope

transcend the planes
life's labels fly away  
lost in mara, or hade's aura
find me here
a head in the clouds
I lost my identity
of fading mist

I met a monk, of Vedic law
I met a Christian who knew it all
I met a man who lived for wealth
and a nun of repressed desire
now here I stand
in non-belonging
though in this place,
i've found...
my real belonging

Deep in the woods of Laching bay
Behind green drapes of whispering trees
Lives a fantastic creature,
A delightful friend and teacher.

He has nestled there for centuries
Watching the world pass through reptile eyes
He is as calm as a setting sun,
As reliable as a rising one.

With scales that gleam and glisten,
A rippling rainbow when light finds him.
When Jumaja speaks, everyone listens

Down a long spine a row of spikes stretches
Brimstone and emerald crowns,
Legacies of his enchanted kingdom.
He may tell you in a soft voice, as deep as the ocean,
How it is to be the last of a kind.