Listen to...
The distant sounds of chimes
And the story of my song
That is an interpretation
Of the fickleness of whispers
From the winds of an invisible
Mill fallen from a cloud
That was formed by the
Assembly of two opposing thoughts.

Listen to...
The old box fan that represents
The alchemy of a child
Singing into the blades
That echo the hope
Of an innocent not yet
Intimidated by the power that
Supplies all movement
Around and around.

Listen to...
The steps of a mother
Rushing to and fro
Gathering ambitions and
Ferociously chasing away
Broken fantasies
By trying to duplicate
The mirror of her own young
illusions of life before it wasn’t
What it was.

Listen to...
The smile of the puppy’s
Paws as she rushes
To greet the awakening
Of a new day that escorts
In the transitioning curtain
That unveils the many
Family and friends that
Participate in the cutting
Of the ribbon and all that it
Remembers.

Just listen...

I tie threads to my eyelids
Pushing them down,
Shutting them for the day,
Putting myself to sleep.

One eye bats, then the other; perhaps together,
But they never fully close.
The sclera shines and lines like the sea waves’ froth.
I rest my head, curled-up in bed
While the words begin to follow
And I ask myself
“Should I get up and write or just let it go?”

The right eye whispers,
“Sleep, poor *****, let’s write when the sun shines tomorrow,”
But the impatient left, stares hard and says,
“What if you forget it all with the morning sorrow?”

So I gather the thoughts on my pillow,
Grab a paper and a pen; they say “hello!”
I write my own lullaby,
Scribble and sigh,
Oh, it’s just another sleepless night,
But I feel alive
Because I write, I write,
Oh I write.

What have I become or
Maybe what have I always been
That seems to be the thought
That encircles the depression
That shoves my face
To the hidden mirror
And holds my cheeks
Turned down and
Keeps my eyes focused
On the ***** stained shirt
And the torn jeans
That seem to fit the distorted
Image that surely isn't me.
There is no answer for
The ones from whom
I have turned away
And there is no seeking
For the answer in the horizon
And there is no sound
From the helpers who
Speak only as they are
Pulling your ears to
Their black hole of needs.

"You fell in love with my flowers
But not with my roots
So when autumn arrived
You didn't know what to do"

-Unknown

I own the burning heart
That you try to fix
With electrodes other
Than the ones broken
In my flesh by the blood
Of the shadow-makers
Who shared the same
Womb of poison
That carries its secrets
Of shame and indifference
Within the same thought
Which races and stabs
With each beat
On and on
Faster and faster

And here you arrive.
A remembrance of new
Thoughts intertwined with
The awareness of an
Ending of stories
Much like my own.
A thread of silver
That finds no wisdom,
A smear of red that
no longer subdues a life
A curl of smoke that
No longer pretends to
Represent the fire
Of what used to be
Because despair stole
The spring that came
Before you could
Complete the circle
Of belief in the one who
Created the very leaf
Who continually falls
In fear of your breath.
Oh the anticipation of you
Never quite embraces
All that you are and
Hold not dear.