There was an old man on the Border,
Who lived in the utmost disorder;
He danced with the cat,
And made tea in his hat,
Which vexed all the folks on the Border.

I am a traveller,
On a journey down this road.
With sunrise in my eyes,
And the sweet moon on my tongue.
The green oceans teach me a lesson or two,
On the vices of humans, and apathy of women.
Lessons on greed, and my brethren and creed.
Holy cities with empty shrines,
With hopeless wanderers from the deep mines.
Of the mountains kissing,
A feeling of love and adore,
And the repentance of losing my sweetest darling, shrewd.
Loving again, my heart arose again,
Of shady currency in the land of shame.

The journey is meandering,
A course like the green oceans,
And a traveller I am,
Craving no hope to stay alone,
Only longing to go back home.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

I just have to look
at you
to feel it.

To know it
I have to look
away.

Like the pages
of a book
mid-tornado,

Fragments of
information, the pieces
all out of place.

Still,

I believe you
beg to be
read.

Today I’ll ponder,
on these scars.
Tonight I’ll wish,
upon a star.

Tomorrow may bring,
another wound,
but wounds can heal,
if treated soon.

Yesterday,
I thought of death,
and felt the wind,
sigh with his breath.

Not today,
he whispered clear,
perhaps tomorrow,
but do not fear.

In the end,
he comes to all.
The weak, the strong,
the big and small.

He’s timeless and constant,
Death’s always “been”,
and he has no pity,
foe or friend.

He’ll lead me on,
to the unknown,
giving me the thing,
he can never own.

So I will not fear him,
and I shall not fret.
For tomorrow,
has not happened yet.

It may look like I'm silent
But don't let it fool you
I'm holding back the will
To say that I love you

The thirst of newness
makes you move away from the crowd of
grievers. I ask the moon, why does he cry?

What was the ritual, when
you seek redemption from
the bonfires of forgotten love?

In fact, sorrow was
a beautiful heritage of truth processors.
You make a temple, and god breaks it.