An ever-flowing chalice
of thick red wine
You could choke before you drown
Damnation in excess
Devilry in revelry
Plenty; a curse
Revenge is in the tannins

Imagine a cream coloured sky
(is actually quite frightening)

When pale, deep, and sky blue vanish
we are forced to question the stability of our world.

Now imagine a friend who has vanished,
or a lover has lost interest,
and isn't that kind of the same thing?

Or what about the temperature climbing higher,
or the oceans getting bigger.

The number of bees getting smaller,
and all the trees that we're harvesting.

Why does change need to be dramatic before we take interest?
Why can't it be small. Incremental.

Reaction these days is necessitated by crisis,
and not an everyday shift towards disaster.

We are comfortable with the everyday.
It is predictable. And comfortable.

But a cream coloured sky...
Now that would scare us into action.

if i knew that whichever way i travelled
i would still come back to this crossroads
would the journey matter at all? No,

unless i was not the same, carrying
the new disease of experience,
wisdom, and enlightened by perspective

then would this crossroads be the same,
if i were different? would i not pass on
this illness, to infect someone else?

if i knew that no matter where i journeyed
i would still return to this crossroads
would my travels matter at all? Perhaps

if i were changed, mutated
by the infection, with imagination,
creativity, and enlightened by relationships

then would this crossroads be the same,
if i were different? would i not pass
this blessing, to better someone else?

at a crossroads i sat, and pondered a syllogism

No welcome mat adorns the threshold of this house, whose stolen curtains leave gaping holes in the privacy of a building, stripped of laughter. The night peeks in through open doors, and rotted walls, where once soft incandescent light illuminated: a family portrait, childhood masterpieces, and a bookshelf once filled with books worn by the love of three souls who enjoyed nothing more than the peace and quiet of Saturday afternoons devoted to the exploration of their favourite author.

Along the North wall, where once the girl's bedroom sat proudly, gleaming with the banners of musicians and musicals, now rests rubble and ruin. Bereft of purpose, the house is weighed down, with the shame of being unable to shelter its family, with remorse from not withstanding, with guilt from the failure to hold together a family that deserved more than the inextricable truth that a life lived fully and completely in youth and virtue must come to a stop fully and completely.

No welcome mat adorns the threshold of this house, whose drawn curtains provide an honest glimpse into the life of a family, stripped of laughter. The day peeks in through an open door, across painted walls, where the soft morning light illuminates: a tough reminder, childhood innocence, and a bookshelf built with the  love and attention of now two souls who try valiantly to remember the peace and quiet of Saturday afternoons devoted to the exploration of their favourite author.

He ran
far from his home,
to free himself from pain,
of ruined love and broken trust.
Last night,
when sleep had come,
I tumbled inside this
old, recurring dream of the boy
I was.

It was
an old, frightful dream of my boy,
that I tumbled inside
when sleep had come
last night.
Of broken love and ruined trust,
to be free and leave pain,
to a new home,
he ran.

one evening while i sat alone,
i asked myself why.

what followed was a long explanation
of why i chose to avoid another

but still i did not understand
and bore a grave dissatisfied smile

the answer for one is also
the question for a second

but surely at the heart of the matter
there is a truth, a reason

but i did not understand

we are not all of us
in this together

but rather in all of us
are the pieces of a journey

it did not matter; the colour
of the stone beneath my foot

if it was still part of the path

What you hold in the palm of your hand.
isonlyasstrongasyourgrip

Your examination of life exists only as long as the balance between strength and understanding is maintained.

between cool fingers of life and death the fragile thoughts of something misunderstood learn to fear all they've ever known

the cage has only ever been what you make of it