In the chill of a dreary April day,
I find myself wandering through the dimness,
My eyes were straining in the absence of light.
As I approach the door, a sense of familiarity washes over me, pulling me back to a time of comfort and solace.
The thought of retreating to the inviting embrace of my warm bed beckons me like a gentle siren, contrasting sharply with the biting cold that surrounds me.
In this moment, I realize that in this vast expanse of uncertainty, there is only one clear path to follow—one that leads back to the refuge of my blankets and dreams.

Zebra are seen mainly in dreams,

With licorice stripes--

And bodies of cream--



Their jewelry box hooves

Are made from the moon--

And their manes were lately

Bristles on brooms.



You can take off their heads

And fill them with clouds--

If you fill them with coins, they weigh five thousand pounds.



Lions like stars--

So they hunt in the sky--

But the zebra are hiding

Behind your closed eyes.



Zebra are seen mainly in dreams--

In the morning, they follow the sun--

When its warmth is felt, their cream bodies melt,

And then, away they run.

I am ten crows, twenty-three starlings,
one tree, a world of racket, every dusk that ever was.

I am a holy heart four angels defend,
other times I am nothing but flesh and fingertips.

There are four seasons, three necessities,
two sides to the moon.

The window has eight panes;
I am in them all.

Shut down.
Rejected.
Left out to dry.

Options,
Elective,
Might soon pass you by.

Don’t get
Dejected.
I’ll tell you why.

You’re not
Infected.
You’re still getting by

You just need
Perspective,
Not sugary lies.

So just be
Reflective,
See your limit’s the sky.

Then not to the
Collective,
But to the moonlight,

You’ll be
Connected.
And find peace in the night.

Tribute
Erected.
It’ll all be alright.

Nobody knows when
love will roll in and
waltz with your crippled
soul.
Nobody knows when
the chickens will come
home, or when the dog
will have its day.

I heard of a place where
silence blossoms into
flowers of wisdom, but
when I ask for directions,
nobody knows.

I taste the sadness of
the sky in every poisoned
drop of rain.
I was born to swallow it.
To be consumed by the
gray expanse.
I ask for the antidote,
the cure.
Nobody Knows.

What happened to the
street signs, the picket fences,
all the love and empty spaces?
People play games, and only
traces of humanity remain.
How do I pull the cord on
this parachute?
Nobody Knows.