The sky retreats,
Upon the drum sound,
Every heart utters its last beat.

As eyes grow dim,
Hazed in clouded lens,
Lies a wreath of grief.

A tender embrace,
Wrapped in a cool breeze,
The end nears complete.

All that’s loved,
Feared and hated,
Have come to cease.

The river meets the sea,
A journey of memory,
Of all that’s been and will come to be.

The desert is a special place,
Among the red cliffs and hellish scapes,
The empty spaces wait,
Fallen boulders lie like sentinels at the gates

Painted rocks,
Of a ****** sun,
Colorful river, snaking along
Full of Siren songs

The heat is merciless,
A slave master
With chains and whips
But something here,

Whispers through the canyons,
Of what lies ahead,
The barren before the end
No man’s land

Here the mystics sing,
Through the breeze
And swirling sands
Of the beginning and the end.

My riddled words,
A mystery haunts me,
As if I’ve seen the ending
And it’s driven me insane.

If it wasn’t for the day,
I’d never leave the night.
I’d forget my way,
And my name.

Dancing on the edge,
Of a cliff that’s far too high.
I’ve fallen many times,
So much so I know the climb.

A delicate day,
Spring just a short distance away
Yet winter still promising May.
This time of rebirth reminds me….

I left the kettle on,
Before I woke up in this place.

I wonder sometimes,
When I let my mind out to play,
On a late night drive
And when I close my eyes.

What happens when we die?
If life’s a game no matter how hard we try?
Is it a shame I smile when I ought to cry?

Life speaks in whips and chains
And sometimes in sweet summer breeze.
Disease reeks,
And I believe death speaks to me.

If there was an answer to these lines of poetry,
Perhaps there would be peace.
Mystics and priests,
Offer no lasting reprieve.

The poet of relief,
Speaks of the heart’s needs.
Jester of despair,
Bringing comical release.

I wonder sometimes,
Of the mystics, poets, jesters and priests.
What tonight will be,
Will my wonderings find relief.

Waiting in line
For the train to pass
Storm clouds moving swiftly by

A man steps aside
Lights a smoke
Waiting for the train to go by

Impatience in the air
Traffic lights
Rushhour time

Tack, tack
The tracks shake
Electricity sizzles

Sun fighting for a chance
But the clouds dominate,
Rains held with a sigh

Waiting,
No one watches the clouds pass by,
Not enough time

Breathe,
Love, if you listen,
Breathe

When you die,
The trains,
The traffic lights

You won’t think of these
But of the clouds,
The gentle breeze.

Waiting
Waiting for our time,
We’re all ghosts walking by.

The train roars through
Hustle on
If you don’t stop,
The clouds will never see you pass by.