At night
my Heart sleeps,
your kiss revives
the air so thick,
your lips so sweet,
to temper bitterness
that less abound
incomplete,
as shadows surround
the sullen moon
beneath our feet,
I breathe you in,
deeply I breathe
you into me,
each breath drawn
as if my first,
stars overwhelmed,
as if to burst,
their fires felt
passions burn
to sear my heart
in whispered flames,
I hear your voice,
And call your name,
I feel your touch,
I have no choice,
my soul is such,
by love designed
to breathe you in,
like heartbeats timed
a rhythmic call
to draw again,
for you are
my oxygen.

My touch,
so envious
of the way
the evening breeze
delicately caresses your face.

My kiss,
so jealous
of the way
the summer rain
gently drips off your skin.

but my heart finds solace
in the hope
that some day
my touch
will indeed
become the evening breeze
and my kiss,
the summer rain.

I quietly sit
while trying to fathom in idiom span,
looking out across life’s distant canyon
delicately carved
by the black pen
clenched tightly in my hand.

As the stars trample upon glory
desperate held by the deadened night,
and breezes break in swishing sound
to disregard the silent trees delight,
the moon shines in utter defiance,
as if obstructing daylights plan,
and as I contemplate in silence,
I begin to understand.

Life
simply comes down
to fate and circumstance,
like timing that falls into the crevices
between accident and chance.

When
the final droplet
of rain
has kissed the ground,
and the last breeze
has drifted away.

When the earth
no longer turns,
and the morning’s flickering flame
no longer burns.

When the tides
no longer ebb and flow,
and the last wave
has touched the sandy shores.

And  when the sun
has retired
from warming the day,
and the stars
have all faded away.

Still
my love for you
will remain.

There’s a light
in your eyes,
it draws me
like a star,
stellar beauty,
calls my heart
to come and dwell
where you are.

There’s a song
in the breeze,
softly sings
of your love,
beckons me
to join you
in the melody
that ascends
to the heavens
upon wings
of songful doves.

There’s a sense
of nostalgia,
and it fills
the deepest spaces
of my heart,
like the smell
of sweet honeysuckle,
opens to fill the evening air,
it draws me
to fatality,
and to your
enticing aroma.

And in this,
I am made aware
of the collusion
between your appeal
and the whole
of creation,
and how
fate conspires
to join
my heart and soul
to you.

Seems like he doesn’t know that…

Morning
light is breaking,
and she’s way past sleep.

Silent,
she sits wading
through the memories.

Haunted,
her heart is breaking,
and her hope deplete.

Seems like she doesn’t know that…

Shattered,
he lays helpless
in his fleeting dreams.

Despearte,
he’s held captive
by her memories.

Tightly
his heart holds remnants
of each broken piece.

Seems like no one cares that…

Some day
the sun will die,
the skies will cry,
and memories of love
will be swept away
by the pain.

And sometimes
no measure of forgiveness
can make one forget the darkness,
and no amount of sunlight
can make one feel
like they never felt
the sting
of the rain.

My New Year’s Eve
was spent
collecting fragmented recollections
to confirm
that my dignity
had truly died.

Soberly,
I perused
the bars and clubs,
and walked aimlessly
up and down crowded streets,
feeling like my life
had somehow
been shifted
into slow motion,
while the rest of the world,
engaging in joyous celebration
and ffestivities,
was knocked out of rhythm
from my existence.

How in the world
could the clock strike midnight?
How could people embrace, and kiss
at the dropping of the ball?
How could they laugh and smiile,
and wish each other a “Happy New Year!”?

More importantly,
how could those ******* traffic lights
have the audacity
to continue changing
from red to ggreen to yellow,
then back to red again.

My dignity had just died.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity was dead.
My dignity was gone.

In the days and weeks
that followed the death of my dignity,
I noticed
that life faded
from colloquial to iconic,
like something mystical,
or an intangible object
of deep longing.

And recurrent images
of those *******
obnoxious traffic lights
insensitively
switching colors
replay in my mind
to remind me
over and over
in the greens (go),
the reds (stop),
and the yellows (be careful),
that my dignity
had died.  
    
Memories
of the ddays
before my dignity had died
run through my mind
like old home movies
with centuries
of black and white film
stuck on repeat,
and slowly fraying,
around the edges,
because of the harsh demands of time.

It is life’s
harsh and cruel irony
that these images,
once my greatest joy,
have now become
inflicters
of the greatest pain
that I
have ever felt.

Like a sound wave
of pain,
so powerful,
that it has silenced
any other pain
that my heart
has ever heard.

So now I know,
it is true
life is a *****.  

The fading
of my dignity
has made me
overly aware
of the earth
turning on its axis.

As spring approached,
for the very first time,
I noticed
the way the flowers
seem reluctant
to bloom,
as if uncertain
of their
welcome invitation.

Such a cruel reality,
that the flowers
would choose
to bloom,
and nature
would choose
to carry on,
slipping
further and further
away from the day
that my dignity died.

And still,
to this day,
those ****
traffic lights
keep switching colors

I ponder, is this by fate ordained?
Still bound by slavery’s chains.
Despite our father’s ghostly plea,
harsh institutes remain.

So long this *******, yet constrained,
a people’s liberty.
A common voice now to proclaim,
set this people free!

All pray to comfort those who grieve
beneath the hallowed ground.
Forefathers gain their good relief
when liberties abound.

Sing loud, a verse from freedom’s strain,
subdued two hundred years.
A chorus now free from restrain,
unfettered by their fears.

To toil for foul oppression cease;
its sting to rage no more.
Ideals that respite in such peace,
or slain brave by the sword.

Covet not oppression’s purse,
the foolish man’s reward;
sought by blood, to be dispersed,
a source of labor’s scorn.

We crave, our precious sons and daughters rise
To stake their rightful claim,
as mothers sew their seed and cry,
go forth child, bear your given name!

She has been one with a brighter day,
consoled by light’s reprieve.
With  hands clasped she has knelt to pray,
for this her sweet relief.

She has been one with a rising sun,
basked in golden rays.
She has sang a simple song of love,
and danced in fields of grace.

She has been one with a gentle breeze,
enhancing the sails cascade.
She has drifted in a harbor’s peace,
where often she abade.

She has been one with a bbrighter day,
darkness yet unseen.
She has been naive to life’s disdain,
she has been what she will bee.

I have toiled
to gain the praise of stars,
and wandered through fields of pain.

Sought to capture the origins
of the quiet storm,
and to taste the fallen rain.

I have gazed
stark upon the blazing sun,
slow yielding to the night.

Overtaken
and overwhelmed by dusk,
in surrender to sorrow's plight.

But at sunrise
hope drips like dew
from wilted petals of doubt,
as refrained captive
within the sweetest of these symphonies
melodies of blue
rise like the morning sun,
to beckon, to call
come one, come all
join the song of the mourning undone...

And as the fallen rain
steadily falls
amidst the harbored call
I am reminded of how the bitter taste constrained
and lost in tears uncried
joined with drops of fallen rain,
and my soul posed satisfied.