Snow doesn’t drift to earth in the same magical way

And there’s no velvet fire to stave off frigid grey

Winds of time erode my sliding face

Each year more hidden

Lumps of coal encase

Golden light illuminates past hallowed times

Laughter and family under a heavenly shine

Was that honeysuckle glow ever there?

Or was it a product of a hope filled child’s mind?

I want to believe that she's just resting on the sofa in her living room.

I hope she’s bathing in the sunlight that’s streaming through the polished windowpanes of her little white cottage.

I hope where she is, the air is clean and smells like apples and cinnamon or pine and snow.

I hope the sound of a car parking in her driveway drifts to her ears to accompany an angelic symphony of birds and bubbling brooks,

And her heart warms because her daughter and her grandchildren have arrived right when they said they would

The paramount goal of art
Is to pour
Your whole self
On a page
And illicit a stronger
Visceral response
From viewers
Than the next
To come

Fate is false hope
Sluggish stagnation
In the stars
You wish on a comet
That all your mistakes
Wipe away
When the universe
Finds it fit
But what
Would it all be for?