What's the point of this?
If no one sees my poems,
I'm doing nothing.

Like a flame igniting an old engine
A frisk of energy sparked
Turning my rusty, frozen gears
And restoring my memories of you.
In a hidden corridor in time -
A dimension since locked away
We two share an instant -
An unobtainable, infinite moment.
Like a fog creeping in on my soul -
An ironic, melancholy nostalgia;
I dream of sunlight on canopy roads
In a place I once called home.
Trapped in a reality without you
We've since broken our promise,
Extinguishing the embers
We swore to smolder forever.
This life is a sort of purgatory -
A spiritual test and journey;
A short waiting period before
We again walk hidden corridors.

I'm onto all this.

My perspective is in alignment
I hear the trees and feel those
Who watch over us and whisper prose
That many fail to notice.

I live in a parallel netherworld
Filled with strange, glorious music
Where time and everything you see
Just ain't what it seems.

It's really very strange
Watching everyone pass by
In slow motion monotone
As I glide through the sky.

I guess enlightenment is for the unenlightened.

When I watch nature -
And look at the narrow strips
Of what we've allowed to persist of that world

=================================
Squeezed between concrete
Sidewalks, roads, and metal sewer grates.
=================================

I wonder if -
As I look upon bare tree branches
Adjusting to the ever-moving autumn air ~
Nature is some sort of escape for the corrupted human spirit
Another world or plane of existence
Where one may finally be taught to know oneself.

If this is the case,
May one never truly visit this place?
Until finally departing from this world?
Must we be forced to play the role of the perpetual onlooker?
Able to see heaven and dream about it,
But never feel, taste, or bathe in its light?

In contrast,
Could the changing color of leaves,
Death, decay and rebirth before our eyes
Be merely a surface level,
Indifferent reminder
That time continues to march ever onward - - -
Without regard to our concerns,
Pains, and feelings about ourselves?

Is it possible that this strange,
Mysterious beauty that we look upon,
But never truly come to understand
Is only in place to remind us
Of its ever-lasting presence?
And in turn,
The extent to which our own existences
Are so  v e r y  fragile and limited
To short blips in time
On a tiny spec of dust
In  s p a c e  ?