write me down in a tragedy
tie me up with metaphor
devour me with pleasures sin
****** me with lust
steal my last breath of love

would you be
the queen of muses
would I be
the fool of kings

what am I doing here
lost within the stars
I can only imagine
as your eyes

what secrets could I find
in the garden of your night
is there more than
forbidden fruit
hanging from the vines

would the sweetness
quench my thirst
or would I need more
and more
until I found
my tongue tied
my teeth rotted
my mouth dry
still hungering
still wanting
one more taste

what am I doing here
lost in a tragedy
tangled in metaphor
staggering between
pleasure and sin
murdered by lust
while stealing from love

what has our intelligence done for us
other than soften our instinct
slow down our reflex
made us into habitual
connoisseurs of convenience
curators of insta-gratification  
creatures of know it all
without the need
to understand anything
the universe just
a night sky out of reach
just a spattering of stars dot the sky
all the cosmos overhead
and we are too consumed
by the blue screens that feed
the narcissism of our egos
to look up in awe and wonder
to question the arrogance
of our intelligence
to see how little we know
about the things we know
as we have killed the view of heaven
with the artificial light of our pollution
facts blurred with faith
and we ignore all the fiction
that causes so much friction
that we allow our children...
that we force our children...
to ****** other children
boys feeling like men
poisoned by patriotism and pride
in such a rush to die
for the words of freedom
never stopping to question
the definition of the repetition
and redundancy of war
never stopping to question
the repetition
and redundancy of war
never stopping to question
the redundancy
never stopping
the redundancy
the redundancy of war
as we will not question the intelligence
that infects us with
the sovereignty to be exalted
by our own cruelty
how else could we excuse
our history that keeps repeating
keeps its transcripts written
in the death and blood of the innocent
mislead by prejudice and hate
taught by fear and ignorance
all brought to us
by what we call intelligence

why were we given these hearts
this muscle beating below our ribs
what good is it
if only driven
by the intellect of our minds
our self indulgent intelligence
why have hearts at all
if we never stop to listen
listen to the message
of its beating
its pounding on our ribs
if we never stop to accept the wisdom
it sings in ever silent word
words that need no definition
need no ink or blood
written down in a declaration
of its reason to be living
it needs not our intelligence to survive
our intellect to live
it has its own wisdom
the wisdom of love
and in our grand intelligence
we are too blind to see
too deaf to hear
too unwilling to feel the truth
of how useless any intelligence is
without the wisdom of love

is it something sparked
something found
or is it just
a passing thought
a fleeting urge

a rumbled hope
a trembled touch
a lost soul
in need of love

or is it a dream
of wickedness
a hunger
from desires flesh
to explore the forbidden
sins of lust

what was imagined here
between the lines
where words did play

what did fingers trace
while parting metaphors
tattooed on flowered thigh

what sound escaped
warm parted lips
where kisses lingered
in long drawn out breaths

was it something lost
or something found
in voyage through
a sea mist scent of love
over sheets soaked
in sinful sweat

where there bodies imagined
what happened here
as their words did play
between the lines

do you ever feel like
you need someone to hold you...
just hold you down...
just so you don’t fall up into the sky...
away from here...
here...
where you’re so desperate
not to be anymore...
here in all the heavy...
all this sorrow..

here...
where hate spreads
at the squeeze of a trigger
a storm of bullets
where bodies fall
that will not get up again

here...
where love crumbles
and the grieving
don’t get to catch their breath
before they find themselves
grieving again

here...
where the pain is everywhere

here...
where you just want
to let gravity go
and leave all of

here...

behind as you fall
into the sky

winter around the corner
and where will i be
when the last day of autumn
has exhaled its last breath
i can feel something more
than the cold creeping
in the cracking of my ribs
and there is a pain
beyond the numb sleeping
in the stagnate pulse of my blood

winter around the corner
and how will i be
when the last day of autumn
walks away with
the marrow of my bones
when my ribs are cold and still
when my pulse has gone to sleep
how will i be
at the winter of my death

no worry dear friends...

I am in no rush to go
it has been a full life
it continues still
to be a good life

love and joy abundant
grief and loss and sorrow
painfully they have been  
but durable
bearable
no tale of life can walk
a road free from days
of melancholy rain

my heart
what stories it would tell
if i could pull it from my ribs
and sit it here upon the stage

it may curse my name
it may tell of heavy woe
but for every burdened song
there was a blessing
a time of immortal feats
a pause along infinity’s horizon
a night that held down the sun
for one last eternal kiss

a memory that death
will not take away

my heart often battered..
broken...
abused...
betrayed...
never stopped beating
never stopped believing
never stopped loving
those that made it love

i look back through
summers spent and gone
and feel the autumn
spreading through my bones  
i suspect the winter of my death
will come with snow
and gentle wind

a passing day that will give way
to eternal night
and much like life has been
I suspect the winter of my death
will be just as beautiful

was she plucking
at his heartstrings
or was it something deeper
or just something lower
a hunger he forgot to feed
a desire
a longing
a sinful intervention
from his melancholy

was it the color of her lips
or the curve of her smile
the wet scent of her hair
or the soft skin of her neck
that drew his attention
to dreams of lust

or was it the play of words
that set the stage
of his imagination
to a fairy tale
of tragedy and love

was it all
just fabrication and myth
a vain attempt
to mask loneliness
as perfume and poetry  

to hide tears that reeked
of heartache and desperation
hours of solitude disrupted
by an ugly sob
a boy lost in the labyrinth
of broken man

as she plucked
at his heartstrings
was it the slow dirge
of a funeral march
or was it a song of redemption
she played from his heart