My incidental life
is a weight I cannot lift.
Of my own creation,
it's an indicaton
of the rift between
who I am
and the shadow
I've become.

Cry me by the bedside,
by the edge-side
I've been before.
Who saw me walking lonely
through all those shades
drawn round my door?

Rose juices rush
through mountain streams,
down his sides thick
with thirsty pines.
Coming to rest
in my shining cave,
until the waters rise again.

There's graffiti on my flowered walls.
I scratched it there
with a pin,
when I was very young.
The view
from my bed
was much better then.

Ursula crafted a boat today
made of styrofoam,
white as sea foam.

Ursula sailed her craft today,
over the bay and
into my eyes.

Shaped like her - with waved bow.
Long and smooth like a
handmade arrow.

Bon voyage!
You are off!
God bless your journey.

Some men look like abandoned mines,
tunnelled through
every working day.
Some women look like
storefront mannequins,
adornment with a price tag.

Others live in Nature.
Their eyes mirror the sky.
They breathe the seasons,
in and out, and they know
it is possible to change one's life
in the blink of an eye.