On cold and windy, rainy night,
I sat beside the fire’s golden light
with such an intention then to write.

To tell what shadow I had seen
pass by outside my window screen-
supposing I knew what it could mean.

Wet cobblestones in alley glisten-
but would anyone out there listen?
Even one would warrant this mission.

Hearing the tired branches sway,
I wondered then how I was to say
what no prior sentence could portray.

I sat, reaching for all the things
that crying wind of cyclone brings-
but silence! Now the blue-bird sings!

How long I sat in aimless wonder
for that spell which I’d been under,
hearing now just some distant thunder,

but few words would come to me.
My pen would’ve set the world free-
but all that flowed from it was poetry.

When you jump into the raging sea,
and through the gates of misery,
do not forget to get your hair wet.
Do not forget to forget your pity,
and don’t forget where they cast the net.

When you’re waiting for your train,
do not forget to become insane,
for here is where your fear is met.
I know the nature of your pain:
You will give more than what you get.

When you huddle in the cold,
watching your empty time unfold,
and all of your joy is rooted in regret-
don’t forget to whom your soul was sold,
and do not let them win the final bet.

When you’re buried into soil,
and let to rest from all your toil;
when your corpse is roasted on a spit-
darkness will still have the light to foil,
so long as you did not forget.

As all those planets passed me by,
I ever wondered- was it them or I
holding the earth in this position?
I've called it a stupid superstition,
yet must point out how odd I feel
assuming that this eternal wheel
would pick just any empty fools
to mold into the vacuum's tools
before pulling the world away.
I know to them I couldn't say,
but if I did, I would explain
I’m more than just a brain-
I too am all the universe,
undivided in a hearse.

Somewhere far from the stars, I slept,
and dreamt a dream where I dug a hole
in the sand, which fell as pyramids wept-
I dug too deep; Earth swallowed me whole.
I freed myself finally from that lonely prison
in which I would witness the hour or minute,
while many long years were evading my vision
and spinning a new world; no trace of me in it.
Now, I'm a spirit who sings this to every soul
that wishes to flee these waves of sorrow
by sipping some cyanide from a bowl:
Refuge which we take, we borrow
from the children of tomorrow.

Standing with friends on a nameless shore,
I feel somehow so grateful to be so unsure
what wonders and horrors destiny has in store.

I go in, and sit where the waves are breaking.
Repeating, rolling over my head, overtaking
all of the spirits- now shivering and awaking.

They did not sleep, yet also they did not stir-
for the land they loved was occupied by her.
Now she's gone, but they're not as they were.

The light is low; the day is coming to fiery end-
but there are certain things Apollo can't defend
and why should I not call the night my friend?

In blackest day, or brightest night,
of longest vision but shortest sight;
in a single step on an endless road
of mindless thought or breathless ode,
I stumbled over the shadow cast
by ancient present and modern past.
Here I discovered a light that shone
on wonders wandering, all alone,
and onto that faceless, nameless ghost
who whispered this to a wooden post:
“If all who judge were to be blamed,
as all who boast were to be shamed,
and all who hate were to be healed,
so all who hide could be revealed,
and stones forgot how sand had sinned,
then spirits which they call the wind
would carry them off as a faithful friend-
and only then would this road end.”

There is neither
word nor rhyme
with passion
left to prove
my love for you,

thus then either
bird, or lime,
or fasten,
shmeck, or groove
will have to do.