I seek the edge of the world I know,
to find the answers to questions that clearly
could help advance this problem, though,
I lose much of what matters, dearly.

The risk is worth the cost and I,
about the path, ‘neath lilac sky
continue towards the blanketing sands
and waters that maybe understand.

I find it at last, beyond my reach,
as I walk down onto the dim-lit beach,
far out against the twilight sky,
alone, with God, my questions and I.

Ask and it shall be given,
if not on earth, finally, in Heaven.

I walk about the path set by
the patch of jonquil spring in bloom,
Nice, now, there is not one save I,
For the springtime flowers, ‘tis just more room.

Down through the low and over high,
the trees wave at their passerby
and I, in happily settled tones,
assure them it is a friend that roams.

And as I come to journey’s end,
I find that in the forest shade
their peace, oh trees of sunshine tend
however old, ne’er begin to fade.

For in the summer meadow’s blooms,
one shall find no dusty tombs.

When I consider the garden in bloom,
I often pick a single flower to take
and put in the shade of my sullen room,
for perhaps a bit happier the room to make.

Lodged in languid emptiness it stares
from it’s protective vase on the windowsill
and secretly I wish it’s fares
to be less than mine, mine greater still.

But sooner, rather than later,
the flower withers, slowly, surely,
and the darkness seems to be something greater,
and I wish for the sun to shine, ever purely.

Tis not the flowers of the garden that bring
the birds in the sunshine of morn’ to sing.

Bring me the sweet blowing breeze of November.
The sweet scent of the late blossoms…
and the peace of the forest clearing.
Let me have again the smell of pine,
the sound of rain on the roof,
the taste of kisses and the brush of soft skin.
Bring me the wisps of the clouds in the summer,
the smell of the moist earth,
the touch of grass on my feet.
Let the wind blow from the north,
the birdsong sound from their old nests,
the sound of their wings beating south.
I embrace the earth as if to kiss it.
I embrace it’s peace, it’s allamande of sounds,
the polyphony of smells and flavors.
bring me the cold of December,
the chills of January,
and let me rest in beautiful solitude,
in wonderful lonliness,
until I’m forgotten again.

Looms the myrtle and drapes the willow.

I ponder the forest and it’s crisp cool air,
and wish on the stars again to be there:
In the shade of the trees, in the arms of the wind,
to fall asleep in this quiet, serene din.

Falls the acorn and sweeps the oak.

I ponder the forest clearing and about myself look,
As I listen to the murmur of the woodland brook,
and remember the fell of it’s cold running water
and wish on my stars to return here later.

Full hangs the moon and to sleep I fall.
Yearning for the forest, and being away from it all.

Men **** women, and women **** men.
They **** them with their words and then:
as the words, at the victims heart now gnaw,
the speaker acts as if they hadn’t spoken at all.

Men **** men, and women **** women.
As soon as the heart on their sleeves are given,
they’re broken by those with lack of care,
or left to float away, as feathers on the air.

Words hurt people, and people speak words.
The transitivity makes sense when brought to bear
on the matter at hand; normally unheard,
except those who take the time to care.

Speak with love to those who have none.
Speak with love to those who do.
Because when you feel like you’re all alone,
those whom you spoke to will remember you.

Given the rarity of shooting stars,
perhaps it’s not best to use one
in it’s capacity for wishgranting,
to ask for your affections;
to which I’ve become nearly a slave.

Given the beauty of the lake in summertime,
perhaps it’s not best that we sit by it.
Your beauty, in all it’s splendour
would make the lake seem dead,
and rob the world of it’s worth.

Given the depth of my love for thee,
perhaps it’s best for you to stay away.
I may not be able to part from you,
and like all flowers kept indoors,
without freedom, you wouldn’t bloom.

Given that the star has not fallen,
and the lake is still beautiful,
and you are free as the sky and the surface of the lake,
I’ll be content with the idea of love,
and set my eyes in the stars above.