the air on my face is cold,
no long bitter and biting,
but a strange cold that belies
the fresh blossoms on the trees,
their white innocence echoing the morning light
as i go by,
admiring the juxtaposed world -
hard and soft, young and aged,
new and old -
that awakens this day,
and inspires something deep within my soul.

finding new music to dance to,
new themes to explore,
new sounds to begin my day,
and lead me into the quiet nights,
where i can lose myself
in rhythm and melody,
reach into a part of my soul and rip it out,
feeling the pleasure and the pain of it,
all through a new song
by a new artist -
new music that soothes the old me,
and helps me find my rebirth.

my voice is quiet, often,
and i choose not to let it be known,
save for when there is something important
that needs to be said.
sometimes, i speak too late,
and my silence perpetuates
the stuff of poorer quality.
slowly, i am finding that my voice is not to be feared,
and i have good things to say,
and though i am not much,
when i speak, people begin to listen.
when we all speak, our voices are heard.

the house across the street looks empty,
georgian roof lined with slate,
the green paint peeling up against the red brick -
through the window glass i see the backs of curtains drawn shut.

i know a man lives there -
i've seen him come and go, even spoken a few times,
and i see his dogs out back,
but i've only seen a light inside once,
when i was wide awake at an unholy hour.

it felt so foreign,
to see the windows brightly lit,
a cheery yellow glow coming from inside,
and all around it, the bleakness of starry night.

it was only for a moment,
as though it knew i'd looked, and shuttered the light again,
saying, "you didn't catch me looking at you"
though of course, it knew the truth.

there is life in that old house, yet.
and i know it's there.

i was made an angel,
i don't remember why,
perhaps it was to show love,
perhaps to learn it,
maybe to understand it,
maybe to understate it,
and maybe i chose this,
and maybe it chose me,
if only i could remember,
if only i could go back,
would i make the same choice?
would i choose the same path?

in the soft midnight,
when velvety darkness surrounds like a mother's embrace,
holding me close and secure,
shutting out all the world,
i'm left with just my thoughts,
my fears,
the bare rock of who i am,
and i have the choice -
whether to look at it and "be"
or to change it.

sometimes, a change is needed,
but not always,
and to know when and how,
i search the embrace of the night,
and i find nothing -
for the answers are never found in the darkness.

i must search the light.

there are days I want to just stand still,
my arms outstretched,
and scream at the world to come and get me,
give me its worst,
throw everything it can to tear me down,
hold nothing back,
but let me know the full fury
of the oncoming storms,
and all the damage they can bestow,
for i am as harry and it is st. crispin's day,
and those not there with me will hold their manhood cheap.

and there are days i am afraid that if i did just this,
the world would take me up on the offer.