There is no release from
sorrow as I cry.
Breaking the treaty
of silence of the
Ancient grieving.
Antilight remains a
dark secret
in the night garden.

Her words had The sweetness
of Honey that only
Wild bees can make .

I often call on god
to explain
but , I get no answers.
He bellows a silence that
I think comes
far too easily.
I receive abundant nothingness,
as it is a hard god
that dried up my prayers
and let me move on
to where my rivers run deep
with drown desire.

I grew up in a house
painted the color of a Bakery .
On a street named after the town
that Bakery is in .

I feel myself drawn
back to the beginnings
catching Salamanders ,
Tadpoles and barefoot
Girls hearts .
Pepe barked and baseballs flew
As the wild Bees
made Honey.

Now I live in a house
the colors of the Bakery
in reverse .
I pick up leaves and
make tracks in the snow
shaped like peace signs .
And I search for that
elusive wild Honey.

Willow barks and
memories fly .
I find my comfort
in my realm of circles .
Until the Universe
finds me and
calls me Home.