Wretched is the lips
On fleshy and ****** bones
Daggers drawn and arrow aims
Draw rings on tethered hopes.

But what have you accomplished?
Have you gained?
Have you changed?
By its very definition
Revolution
Is the same
At the end,
From the beginning
Circles back to where it stays
The power reigns
Just in the form
Of what the order’s law
Betrays
The best intentions
Left eventually
To hell the roads are paved

Vanity and innocence of heart
Says ‘Take a chance on me...’
Middle age says ‘Move along, save yourself’
For you already know
You’re not worth the pain you’ll
Inflict
The lives you’ll ruin
The love you cannot give back
For they’ve already come and gone
Years before...

At least you have the decency
For that...

I’ll walk clifftop.

Watch the sunrise fractured by a hundred different puddles, made whole again by the sea.

I’ll bleed peace and spill calm over ground that should’ve been cared for by now, and I’ll draw maps of the old season in battleship blue and a half-healed ****** crimson.

I’ll love them: Today they are mine.
Tonight I’ll give them away, and I’ll love them more.

I’ll walk clifftop.

I’ll pause. Watch the sunset rain copper-coins into a rolling-smoke sea, and I’ll miss him.

on reflection
this year has held more grief than joy
but grief and joy and be held
in the same palm of your hand
and blossom into a new bloom of hope
it’s okay if all you did was survive
next year will be your year
to thrive

A tiny trickle of sand
passing through
the fingers of your hand
that's an hour
just a shower
of amber grains
what remains
of a once mighty boulder
much older than time
it has heard midnight chime
many times
the tick tick tock
of the clock of eternity
and now it embraces modernity
slowly wearing away
day by day
hour by hour
as a shower of sand
in the palm of your hand

Anyone there write poems anymore.
Is picking up a pen a thing of lore?
Are there star accountants counting at night?
Dictating under a moon too bright.

Hands hovering  under a dim light,
Pencils swaying like a rod for a bite.
No audience pulling on your string of words with polite
No mountain of phrases on landscape of white


I know these thoughts a bit,
my own private hell.
But more horrifying than this
Is no ink in the well