Long ago there lived a man,
a little Frenchman,
he had an idea,
a wonderful contradiction.

If you choose to believe,
decide what you'll get,
make your choice,
your's to agree or contradict.

If you choose disbelief,
and find yourself in the right,
you'll find yourself forever gone,
and if wrong,
everything is lost.

If you choose belief,
and find yourself in the wrong,
you'll find you care not at all,
but if right,
eternal is your delight.

Even if the man upstairs doesn't exist,
I say that he does,
a culmination of ethics and good,
we a member of the godhood.

The street is empty,
rain has washed clean the road,
the trees provide a canopy,
the streetlamps a goal.

We walk arms interlocked,
no need for time,
no time for measurements,
no measurement for age,
for the night is young.

So many charming phrases to say,
they lay on the tip of my tongue,
and with the beauty of the night,
I am easily outdone.

The ambiance begins a song,
the breeze the melody,
life simply sings along,
casting ripples across the stream.

The sights around us are calming,
she's the only thing I can see,
I can't believe it myself,
how does she have time for me?

The moonlight strikes forth,
hammer on anvil,
forging love from old embers,
stories untold.

Whether we'll be together or not,
I cannot say,
but right now it doesn't matter to me,
that's the kind of love you don't often see.

As I laying dreaming one night,
I lay on my porch staring at the sky,
my vision blurred with the onset of sleep,
a smile on my face.

I floated off into the distance,
mind sent downstream,
collective experience open before me,
I find that I have no resistance.

I am not where I was,
I lay in a field of flowers,
stretched beyond sight,
it is here that I want to die.

Hands and knees,
above me I see a girl,
she's wearing a summer dress,
her outline slightly different from the rest.

The sun beats down,
the flowers reach up,
drips of sunshine hit the grass,
the girl's dress melds with the sky.

I don't know who or what she is,
I don't know where she's come from,
why she's here,
but she's all I want.

I reach up towards her hand,
the flowers heed my call,
hand in hand,
I can't evade her draw.

Our hands touch,
the cliché is broken,
her hand is filled not with first loves,
but the warmth of nostalgia flooding back again.

On her palm rests,
fond times out on the lake,
overcoming family deaths,
of what family we have left,
and in the end that's all we've got.

I take her hand in mine,
and in return I give it all back,
songs and stories,
defeats and glories.

We lay back against the sky,
dreams and tears both go by,
wishing for the gift of flight,
basking in a unfamiliar sun's light.

In a flash it's all gone,
I think that perhaps I was wrong,
I'm always singing the same tune,
saying that I love you,
just me and the moon.

If I were to describe my perfect women,
I'd say she would have to confuse me,
shock me again and again,
jolt from my steady routine.

She'd be sweet as can be,
meek and perceptive,
kind influence rolling as far as the eye can see,
show me what this world is.

She'd be a spicy girl,
sharp wit and silver tongue,
she'd like to dance and twirl,
always aware of the smoking gun.

She'd be sweet and spicy,
my perfect dish,
our meals won't be pricey,
when life swings and we miss.

She embodies the dream,
teaming with love for the kids,
love stitched to the seam,
connection grown with each kiss.

You feel so lonely,
the shadows overtake you,
things never feel the same,
if only.

You don't feel accepted,
you've held on fairly well,
to your credit,
but endurance can only go so far.
You're at wit's end,
the end of your rope,
frayed and broken,
but don't let go.

Letting go seems easy,
no more suffering,
no more sighs,
echoing through your soul.
Your body is wracked with sobs,
shaken,
but you can't give in,
don't pull the pin.

Do NOT give in,
don't let it **** you in,
the tidal wave,
the thunderstorm in your head.
If you pull that trigger,
you might as well do me too,
the pain you'll cause is greater by far,
than the hand you've been dealt.

Don't give in to what is easy,
do not give into the pain,
but don't drown it out either,
life isn't a game.
No matter the hardship,
no matter the trial,
day by day,
morning by morning,
how great will be your reward,
be it a culmination of humanistic ideals,
or a loving father's arms.

The Devil,
King of Hell,
Lord of Deception,
and to me,
a common misconception.

He tempts us when we least expect it,
he tempts us all the time,
subversive puppet strings,
his subterfuge refined.
He is evil,
he is cruel,
participant of time's longest feud.

But wait,
his intention wasn't this at all,
where did he lose his way?
where did he go wrong?
He was prideful,
an unwitting thrall,
Son of Perdition,
hated by the one and the all.
Guile isn't an easy game,
he must have intellect beyond our scope,
why can't he see what's in front of him?
He himself is his own undoing.
He gives us agency,
is that such a bad thing?
He's either,
stupid,
spiteful,
or most frightening of all,
knows the truth,
the necessity he represents.
Perhaps,
this whole game is a ruse,
a tool,
a pawn ready for use.
A necessary evil,
corrupting some,
perfecting others,
a tragic story to tell.
He struggles in vain,
we struggle the same,
struck from the Good Lord's veins,
made to improve.

There is no refuge in the dark,
darkness is stark against the light,
without the one,
there can be no other.

I'm building a house,
with my own two hands.

The kitchen is empty,
the walls sigh,
their breath is restful,
the oven serenades.

I can taste the sweetness in the air,
it rings softly as trees billow,
willows casting shadows,
their tears hang in the air.

A bulwark,
shelter from the storm,
I am alone,
but I do not feel lonely,
I am home.

I have made a home,
with my own two hands.