This dark soil
teems with potency
of light and life
the sun stirs the soul
hidden in wait
for the creative juices
to flow and saturate
its seeds to spring.

There is no sense,
or evidence,
that we should at all
call the world peaceful.

Forever let my fingers trace your spine
Dot to dot- I'll draw every line
Your soft, sensitive skin
Smells - where have you been?

So many words flying
The rooms spinning and I'm crying
Your words slam to the floor
With your hand on the door

Oh god, he's leaving
My already widowed heart grieving
What can I say
to make him stay

"I know its not you- its me!"
What a desperate plee
Rooted in lies
Something more ugly, than all of our highs

"No, it's not you,
that's not the least bit true"
But with each of his sighs
I see in his eyes

It's the end