the bar was dark cave.

Dixie sang a song
and I pretended
she was singing to me.

two amateur fights,
2 black eyes
and a broken nose.

(and i couldn't get the silly grin off my face.)

"there is something beautiful
about the fall

to the canvass," I tell her,
"the sweet dreams only of you."

Dixie shook her head,
"why do you fight
when all you do is lose?"

"if you don't fight
you've already lost."

Dixie said I was crazy
and i scared her.

"but Dixie
you are my only friend.
we'll pull the stars down from the sky,
set the wicked night on fire."

Dixie tried hard not to,
but she smiles.

and there is something graceful
about the fall, golden leaves. the brevity
and the cooling air

and the nights we had by the lake.

a silent embrace...her warmth lingers against me,
a quiet tenderness beyond touch
and all we knew was a timeless "now."

The burning brands . . .
plucked from the ashes of the fire
Are the castaways
The fragments of lives
The unworthy
The heedless . . .
are priceless to the great lover of empty souls

Your wealth
in exchange
for my health?
That I can't accept:
my peace
would be taken away
nothing of value
would I have left

your health
you must cultivate
looking else
is but dearth

I do pity you
for what
you can't have.

In world of fake news
truth comes out only a few
but you know,
Even if you are true
there is but nobody who believes in you.

𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠,
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑠
𝐼𝑛 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓...
𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑡ℎ
𝐼 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑛;
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟'𝑠 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑡ℎ
𝑊𝑎𝑠 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒;
𝑂ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟'𝑠 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛
𝐻𝑎𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑎...
𝑊ℎ𝑜 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢?
𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖
𝑊𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑠ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑑
𝐼𝑛 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠...
𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑑𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔?!
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛
𝑀𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑠ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑑...

A deafening bang. A blinding flash.
A tortured scream, then malicious laugh.

We are magic.
Are we are monsters?

Come here; compassion barely holds.
And without passion care is cold.
All love leads to sacrifice.
We have the virtue to chose our vice.

Are we magic?
Are we monsters?

There is conviction in the heart of man.
There is beauty in his eye.
But the sums of soft concerns sound loudly
To drown out harder crimes.

We are magic; we are monsters.

We tell our “truths”.
They paint our world.
We’re practiced.
We’re patient.
We’re porous.

We are magic. We are monsters.

Do I wish to live among them?
Sometimes “yes”, most often “no”.
In that mix of grazers grazing,
Until they’re told it’s time to go.
Would I let them sheer me?
Feed me? Breed me?
In some other life,
Perhaps, who knows?
But terms like “trending topics”
Tend to wound my very soul.
And only rarely have I found another
Who can understand my goal.

But halt!

I fear that I can take no more,
My cup has already overflowed.