Ever see someone on a bus,
On a train,
Or in a park?

And they smile,
Or tuck their hair behind an ear,
Laugh,
Or even quietly frown.

Ever see someone in public,
And picture a life?
Envision a fleeting world where you swallow fear,
And smile?

Ever catch a glimpse of a life you could live?

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.

Corruption and Seduction, twins living in discordant harmony.
Firstly, Corruption lives in a crowded home, in the lamplit living rooms and in the starched collars and sore legged dining halls.
        Seduction lives in the attic, and ghosts from room to room, leaning on others as it passes, like an injured soldier.    
         Guiding into places seldom spoken of and rarely trod.
She asked him how he could change his mind so quickly.
I think his mind was never made in the first place.

Be it Corruption or Seduction, they live as synonyms and antonyms.
A promise broken, words thrown aside or forgotten, a trust crumbling to dust.
Credit this, not to one or the other, but to both, working for each other to accomplish the objectives laid at their feet by the gods.
Moments of weakness, burdened with fear and doubt, belong to this indecent pair.
         Scoffed by most, yet intimately known to all, Corruption and Seduction manipulate and corrugate.

Sinking,
       the drifting ceiling of blue and grey light
illuminating the ride.

Suffocating,
       grasping for something, anything,

A light in the dark,
       the eternal fading,
the last residuals of the cold falling away,

And then the transitory returns.
       The golden sun, wind kissed waves,
and a weather beaten hand catching yours,
       a call, joyful, echoed the gull high above,
as safety brings the glow of liberty.

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.

if I could lose myself in your eyes,
       all that I am would be yours.

but the road map on your skin, crisscrossing the years of love and sorrow,
       guides me through the ups and downs of you,
everything leading me home.

if I could lose myself in your touch,
       I would gain more than I ever spent.

but the cold stares and the harsh whispers
       keep me from you,
everything locking me up and shutting me down.

if I could find myself in your love,
       that would be more than I ever deserved.

The cold winds and following seas
Did little to chill the rage beneath
The torpid skin and fragile bones.

Behold, the only thing strong enough
To keep us alive
Against God’s will.

Though some find hope,
In the arms of others,
I know only suffering. I find only pain.

Time passes, the earth spins and things are forgotten.
       But through my life,
Moments.

Velvet darkness, the heat of their eyes on me, a warm light smiling down,
       Capturing the dust swirling through the air,
Time stops.
       Shimmering sound around me and within, a deep glow of pride.

Standing atop a nearly vertical mount, the spray foaming over her sides.
       The brilliant blue of the sky contrasting the steel grey of the water below
My brow furrowed, every fibre of my being concentrated,
       on the serene buoy, bobbing happily opposite his twin.
The ripple of canvas, a single, joyous shout,
       followed by the roar of victory.

A foreign, yet comfortable bed.
       The window letting in the golden morning,
The quiet dust respectfully acknowledging the beauty,
       of the perfect light.
A slow, pleasant drift into consciousness,
       lasting for hours,
yet gone in a moment.

These are the moments that create,
       These are the moments that nurture and love,
These are my moments, and in my words,
       I pass them to you.

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.

Nevermind what I said,
       all those years ago, leaning into you with the soft gravity of love.
Nevermind where we were,
       even though it's just a few feet away from me right now.

Forget the way it was said,
       the words uttered low, sweet to your ears, almost tangibly yours.
Forget the way it made you feel,
       each syllable serenading your jilted senses.

Please take away the memory,
       tear from me the double edged recollections
of you.

Nous ne sommes pas.

Nous ne pouvons pas être.

Parce que nous allons a l’endroit les roix.

Et il est juste.

I stood,
   I shouted,
       And I was heard.
I came down in the field of heroes
       Loving myself just that one inch more,
   one inch that makes all the difference.
And now I lay, in soft grassy arms,
   leaving behind the noise and pain,
gaining in love what I lost in lust
   And concluding the dance started
so long ago.

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?

I let the flames burn, and I taste the morning.

I let the smoke rise, and it joins the taste of the morning.

I let the heat cook through my skin, the saturation reach its peak, and now I taste the morning.

The tangibly sweet anguish of an evening well spent is on my lips, down my throat, throughout my being...

I let the spark ignite,
and so I must taste the morning.

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.