I've written dozens of poems,
       hundreds of similes,
millions of metaphors,
       in an attempt,
to share you with the world.

But I could write for a cenury,
       compose for a year,
rewrite and indite,
       for days and weeks,
but you can't put heaven down on paper.

This is a person you love.
         Put aside what you think, and know
This is a person you love.

Even as she walks away,
          This is a person you love.

While she fumes and yells,
          This is a person you love.

Even when you're mad,
            I beg you, leave it alone because
This is a person you love.

In the morning light, this is a person you love.
By the dying fire, this is a person you love.
And as the sun goes down on another day,

This is a person you love.

Harsh fire on a subtle frown
Leading us into a solemn accord
Something that could never bring us out of our place.

Harsh fire on a subtle smile,
Guiding us into a happier place
A large silence, and then life.

She studied his face.
The morning sun highlighted the soft hollows and rigid lines of his jaw, his eyelashes catching fire in the sun.
          He looked serene with his eyes closed, his face set in a soft frown.
 As she stood, a wave of emotion forces her back onto the bed.
          Conflicted between the soft warmth, and the desire to flee, to close her eyes, to just move on.
               Resigned, she stood and pulled a sweater over her head woodenly. She stooped and pulled on her skirt, then turned for a last look.
               Perturbed by the flurry of movement, he’d rolled over towards where she’d been, where she now wished she was.

Sometimes a step can take an hour,
      Other times, a single second.
These moments, frozen into memory,
       Drive me upwards.

The constant buzz of footsteps,
        as the rush north continues.
Who am I to reverse or change direction?
        Who are any of us, to alter the flow?

Bland colours on the walls reflect our hearts.
Cold drafts in the empty hallways inspire doubt in our already clouded minds.
       A stream of words, uninterrupted through the weeks and months, never ceasing,
        breaks even the strongest discipline.

Droning, numbing, abrading away all thought or whim, melding perfection,
           that may never come, that will never fully avail itself upon the collective senses
            Of the plenitude of “students” living and working between these walls.
The walls painted a uniform eggshell, urging to stay in the incubator.

The door stands as a gateway to another, brighter, complete, world.
              The door, though with hinges easily opened, and a threshold easily crossed,
               Has been lifted to a height unattainable to those who work alone, or in dissidence with others.
                It stands as a gateway, but the way has never been as arduous, nor as complicated, quite as now.