I am not angry with the day
though I gaze the skies with such disdain
I cannot outrun the light
so in the interim I wait idly by
or hide in shadows

so strong and constant
is the Sun
reminder of my weakness burns
I greet the darkness in it's absence
it holds no truth
no strength
only the means to cower

I will ride the ***** of night
until I fall into my dreams
where thoughts are kind and colors play
it is here I escape
the wrath of day

sharpened to crystal serenity
my vision breathes life
into these moving pictures
these dreams
I awake to sweat and thirst
should I dream of a sun drenched paradise
or the afterglow of love
should I meet her
on the moonlit plane of ecstasy
I am alive in my world of fantasy
it is here that I am lost
here that I am waiting
for life to reveal itself

we do not choose what we believe
we must believe in who we are
our lives begin and end with truth
how bright the light
how true the star
the further from the heart we drift
the less we know the soul
to the wind our thoughts will sift
our dreams just fragments
never whole
we do not choose what we believe
we must believe in who we are
take a pause and take a look
before you walk too far

I hear the rumbling of a distant train
the steady pulse makes its way up the mountain
through the leafless trees
and dense mist of an oncoming thought
but it does not come closer
only passes and fades to still
calm time
the large blackbirds search along the blanketed white hills
but there is little to feed upon
and I sense defeat as they pull their wings tighter
against the wind
the days are cold this high
and the nights are unforgiving
one bird leaves the limb
landing upon my window ledge
peers through the glass and catches my eye
quickly learning that he will find no solace
here

Where does the poet turn
when the words cannot be found
who will see him
through quiet nights
and solemn days
as he fumbles in thought
at a scene already written
an emotion already spent
the frightening possibility
that his dreams have all been dreamed
his nightmares all survived
the poet's eye if narrowed
is blind

a cold wind turns the corner
as he makes his way
to the nearby park
with pencil and pad
he will gaze in infinite wonder
the children at play
the Sun on the bay
and he will wish he could live
the words once again

alone on these quiet shores
in the precious moments before the Sun departs
final echoes of laughter have faded
the mind turns to the reason I am here
it is hallowed ground to this weary traveler
that which brings me back to a path of pure thought
the connection of the soul and mind
the ocean soothes like a gentle voice
of one familiar
and I am somehow closer to you here
it is in these moments that I feel the energy of you
sense the beauty of you
and when the laughter returns
when the moment is no longer mine
this precious time that I have saved
will tell me
when you are near

the last word falls
like a mountain on a dove
a shadow on a child
a bullet through a rose
and no-one knows
quill rests between cold fingers
the ink
is dry