It's always the road
          blowing songs in her ears,painting glory in her eyes.
Why? they ask,who only live beside the road,who don't know a different sunrise.
Those who stay home .

She brings the scent of distant flowers
the flight of eagles in faraway skies
Carrying ancient rocks to lives bound by hours
Watching life with loving eyes.

Its always the Road
  and the peace of knowing
it's not getting there,it's the going

Through unheard hymns, stained glass reflections,
and blurred visions of scattered rosary beads under a dusty crucifix
I stumble desperately towards the confessional booth
so as to skip purgatory
and walk across dried [willow]* leaves,
the patron saint of flipping the bird
refusing to recognize the difference
between water and it's apparently holy counterpart.

Unscathed by altars of broken dreams
I will slip into the mysterious afterlife
without fear of judgement,
rather drunk
with a child's curiosity.


*unfavorable climates for palms led to the substitution of boughs of box, yew, willow or other native trees.

If notebooks could talk...
What would mine say?

If it could erase itself...
Would it wash my works away?

Would it scream in my face...
That my words have no taste?

Would I regret ...
Letting my thoughts run free?

Would you take that all away from me?

Sitting dwarfed in your divinity,
I can't help but feel somehow distressed.
If I shan't love you for infinity,
Then what use is my love if not for best?
Your ballad is too sweet for just my ears,
Yet to share this pleasure I'm too selfish.
My vanity is gone as with my fears,
But with this simple loss I feel selfless.
Evil is coaxing, O' how I shan't sin,
For if I sin my innocence is gone.
Held in your arms I feel your my own kin,
And if I ignore this I do you wrong.
This shameless bond we have we can't ignore,
For already my soul is linked to yours.

I'll be there to dance you past
the ruined barricades
when you surface
from the blackened silver leaf
of buried cathedral roofs
toward the songs that rise
from the orchards
and the draught of blackbirds
who tear from the spires
in your father's gothic prayers