Sometimes I look up to the sky and have a longing to propel myself outwards amongst the stars and planets and fragments of dust that cling together in desperation, attempting to create some planetary mass that someone, somewhere, might one day call their home.

The earth looks on. We go about our lives, venturing to her highest peaks and trekking across the open plains. We cultivate crops in the soil and celebrate when the rains flow from the skies and into the rivers and streams and taps and glasses on the dinner tables of business men and dying veterans, and the child who laughs at the forming of the rainbow, that symbolises the unavoidable end of this dream that we have grown so comfortable with.

The earth looks on and is indifferent. We gouge away, we poison, we pollute and we pillage the lands, and expect to fill that void within us. Destroying the very planet that has given us birth so that we might find ourselves, find our way. Yet the more we gouge and poison and pollute and pillage, the further away from this idealised end do we find ourselves. For we do not only destroy the earth; we destroy ourselves. A drop of poison in the ocean is but one more in our cup. As we pollute the skies, so do our minds become clouded and our vision becomes obscured by the continually evolving chaos we find ourselves in, and we double and triple our efforts to maintain order so that we might fill that ever present void.

Should one look to the stars or the depths of his mind to find that which he seeks? The deeper we dig, the higher the towers rise above our heads. One cannot stand on a mountain top and deny the existence of the stream that flows effortlessly through the valley. Swim amongst the clouds and glide with the raindrops and rainbows will make their homes amongst you.

A Plastic bag crushed by black rubber,
My attention drawn from the lights of the windows,
Is this my home I see before me,
Or am I in a place where everyone goes?

Who Knows?

Do you know your neighbor?
Curtains hide even the most eccentric lives,
Am I one of them, these people,
Or is this that towards which i do not strive?

Am I alive?

The mirror tells all,
When all is said and done, I am one of them.
I am them; I am no one; the truth it unravels.
Neighbor, if you see my shadow on your travels,
Do not point him in my direction.

the worm may be caught,
but the suns ever-dying shadow,
oblivious to its own intentions,
pursues the horizon

who knows the cry,
of new frontiers, faded to grey,
the distant echos, impossible to ignore,
silence prevails; the **** crows

for the laughter of a child,
or the memories of stories told,
will fade with horizons,
illusive to the eye

for he who once remembers,
the harvest of limes and of lemons,
the words of wisdom already spoken,
the past seeks to forget

They came to me, like the ocean meets the sand,
They listened, but they still could not understand
They wanted to hear more of the words I had spoken,
They tried to manufacture, they found the mould broken.

They saw the unique, many copies they made,
Identical, each there creation, replayed,
They celebrated; succumbed to their self made illusion,
They cast the broken aside to control the confusion.