I'm dying, my friends,
but it's okay.
I'm only dying slowly.

I don't have a diagnosed illness, like you'd think,
unless you can count 'life,'
but I think some would call that thought 'blasphemous.'

I can feel the approach of the end,
stalking me on soft feet. A mere breath,
coaxing me towards the deepest sleep.

I've made my bed, so no worries, I'll lie in it.
I've fluffed the down pillows and starched the sheets,
I won't have to be afraid of dreams this time around.

I have a sense it won't be old age that does me in,
but I mightn't die young, either,
not that it really matters.

I'll take my time in this world,
but once the sand's at the bottom of the glass,
I won't look back.

Do I flirt with death? Oh yes.
I've brushed hands with him a few times.
I don't think he minds that much.

I'm dying, my friends, but it's okay.

I'm only dying slowly.

h.f.m.

no care, no stress
no traffic sounds
relaxing in or out
bliss that knows no bounds

building castles
flying kites
seagulls' call
in playful flights

in hammock lazing
palm tree's pleasant shade
reading, writing
sipping lemonade

whispering breezes
softening light
ocean's rhythm
lulling sleep at night

waking to the sky
pink and tangerine
strolling in the sand
beside the water's sheen

no care, no stress
no traffic sounds
relaxing in or out
bliss that has no bounds

its sweet fragrance imprinted
on olfactory nerve
bloom pressed in a book
essence is thus preserved

its delicate hues
painted in one's thoughts,
petals counted in loves me,
loves me nots

its hips used to make a tea
florets turned into potpourri

if it seems too brown or dry
give it another try

don't do anything rash
don't throw it in the trash

keep smiling and do not weep
put it on the compost heap

doesn't have to be its final ovation
you may get a (re-in)carnation

I'm transparent like a window
but I'm prone to keeping curtains closed
to cover up my youthful,
aching, naked soul.

I used to be promiscuous;
my essence on my sleeve.
a charming laugh; a crystal glass
from which many a fool drew drink.

A chalice of life;
warm like cinnamon wine,
soft like angel's delight.
Beheld by every eye.

But it never felt right;
I was smoke off a fire,
yet still smouldering coal.
Just a young, beautiful

byproduct of desire.
There's no smoke without fire.
Although, I tried to fan it cool;
the flames ran only wilder.

But as the old wind blows, it seems
a withered tree still grows new leaves.
A dandelion spreads its seeds
but they lie far away from me.

Now, I move transcluently-
ultraviolet invisible ink-
I speak in soothing whispers;
they travel further than you'd think.

if I can't think what
the problem can be
well, then it just has
to be me!

even if no problem at all
imagination jumps in
kicks me right in the shins
from there a mountain will grow
out of a tiny mole hill, oh woe!

I know this is something I do
I remind myself it's nothing new
yet my senses seem to dislodge
finding ways to my own sabotage.

it's deep in my heart and my mind
a solution I'd sure love to find
to a problem that this time I know
is definitely me...without doubt.

zero








         became





                  in the beginning





                                          nothing
­




                                                            ­   0




                                                             ­            s p r e a d  o u t


                                    
                         ­                                                                 ­              nowhere
                                           ­        surrounded by
                                           nothing              everything                  until
                     looking in on      one              zero
                 everything               surrounded by                                    it
             looking out on                        
             within                                                           ­                           bent
              seen from
               that can only be                                                              b­ack
                 a vision
                    from outside                                                          ­in
                          seen                                ­                             on
                               can only be                                 itself
                                      a shape that          became
                                                          ­     1