When here
In "Poetry Land,"
I am traveling
To distant worlds
Of the imagination
Unending,
Mystical and Exotic.

When here
In the "Real World,"
I am a single, childless
Woman.
Mid-thirties;
Two cats.
Misunderstood,
Unconventional.

I lost my glasses
This morning.
Suddenly I'm back
In highschool,
"In my mind."
Remembering all
The times
I taped them;
Tried many types:
Scotch, Masking, Packing.

Luckily, In my adult life
I'm now prepared.

I dig under my bed
For my "back-up pair."

Checked every corner
Of my small studio
To find that my spectacles,
Just like lost socks,
Have vanished
To Neverland.

Darkened Star—
Goodbye.

Nothing to fear,
Only dim sparks
That fly
High;
Etched
In twilight drenched remnants of minutes and space
Connecting past the universe’s face.

Darkened Star,
You’re no longer,
In sight.

No need
To fear;
Light encumbered under the warmth
Of a full heart reaching beyond a blind man’s dart.

Darkened Star,
Goodbye.

No one really knows,
Where we go.
No matter how strong,
Together,
And reinforced 
We try to be;
There is 
A force we can't control:
Fragility. 

So,
Let's not 
Think so much.

Our nature
Eludes true 
Vulnerability.

Take away something real, fiction
Hold it in your arms, metaphysical
Friction, Oh, hyper-monitor diction to
Take hold of nonexistent, nonsensical
Non-fiction; How it slips from fingers
Ever distant, moving yet arthritic; much so,
This life fades, Drowning in indifference
In the future not far; Traces fill the spaces
That hold your heart back as if paralytic.
Become resistant, To feel alive in life here.
If only to replay the best yesterdays;
When tomorrow is clean-slated fate,
Today is an oil smudged rainy sidewalk,
There is a Specter, an owl on a high pole;
In the light of fluorescence a ****** there,
Eyes glow; what does the wise one know?

How countlessly they congregate
  O’er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
  When wintry winds do blow!—

As if with keenness for our fate,
  Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
  Invisible at dawn,—

And yet with neither love nor hate,
  Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva’s snow-white marble eyes
  Without the gift of sight.