I sometimes wonder how a home can at one moment feel like one and then at the next be completely devoid and decrepit of any homeliness. Is it the emptiness within myself that does this or is it simply just a broken home?
      The window beside me provides my eyes with a somewhat bittersweet beauty that in many ways, reflects what I feel inside: the trees are traced with white linens and shades of red-browns and greens, they seem to mingle well with the thin layers of snow that cover their branches.
       This window, this scenery is my only solace now; my one and only confidant. No one else seems to be around, it’s just me and the few flurries that linger in it’s transparent frame. To the touch, the window is cold, much like the way I feel, with the exception of my hunger. Though, my hunger, a physical matter, a need, I find it’s insatiable appetite extend out to regions far removed from food or water, it begs for mercy, for company, for a quality of care that only a mother or lover could provide, but my life has been bare of all these things just as the trees outside are now without compassion.
      A new beginning is coming and I am leaving what I know behind in hope to find something other than the fruitless views of my second-story solitary. I've heard from writers and actors alike that some people are meant to just live their lives riverside with just their thoughts and land to look after, and that some are meant to be artists…there are others who hear music all their lives and live by it, I on the other hand am one of those people who pray they have the strength to start all over again.
      It’s hard to accept that all I've ever done has not and will not come back around to serve me, if anything at all, my actions have been degenerative. I've seen my life go from light to pitch black darkness. I've walked along righteous paths before and without ever really understanding what kind of mistake I’d be making, have walked right off into the wild brush with no sense of where I was going or how I was getting there. My needs then were simple and selfish. For years drugs, *****, "good times" and women, bars and nightclubs all became more of concern than they should have been; they ****** the life right out of me and to this day those mistakes trail behind me. Even as I look into the mirror they work themselves into my frame of mind as I see my own two eyes glaring back not truly understanding what is standing before it.
     It is a sad and cold story just like this window frame and the frozen rain behind its seemingly placid transparency. Soon though, spring will present a fortuitous rebirth and maybe then, just maybe the view from this window will be more vibrant, fervent, and abounding with both warmth and life.

The night was comfortable,
branches lightly choreographed a dramatic reaction
to the conversation beneath…
spoken words breach the midnight hour by 2,
and words are in place of sleep.
They speak,
but still pretend to have something worth to keep
In silence now, no reaction.
Walls and thoughts collide
and they see the infraction.
In a quick succession of contact,
blood boils
intuition becomes submissive.
With the steam of these midnight hours
rises away
the taboos of love and loyalty,
as intoxication devours
any human decency.
Breathing softly now;
with eyes that berate the truth
hiding behind the midnight-hour lies,
they instigate innocent massage wars
desperately wanting
neither knowing
how they plunge underneath
these unbreakable ties.
Now speechless
they grasp one another
speaking devilishly with eyes
and even louder
with the toils of their hands.
Why do you run from surreptitious lies
and hide behind your eyes?
Say this is how you feel for one thing
then when it’s around
wear a disguise?
Helpless you act
toward desires that you conspire to
You lit the match
and now you must put out the fire.

I light a cigarette
and take a seat onto a damp lawn chair;
the smoke rises and billows
against the crimson colored shadows
like milk in water
and I watch as it goes up to the sky,
over my house where it leaves me to stare.
My mind is clear, eyes wide open,
ears dilate as cool droplets of water trickle down
with pitter patters through the leafy green stairs.
Some even skip from step to leaf top
as if to jump in a quick hurry toward its destination;
others fall in groups behind me
and morph into four legged creatures
that scatter across the moist ruffles
of old and weathered leaves.
Still, my focus is above.
This silent noise abounds from all directions:
a chirped song of a baby bird to my right,
the concerto soloist of a cricket in hiding below,
the bell whistle croak of a frog somewhere near by.
If my senses were a cup it would surely be full now:
Musky odors from a previous storm
that lie softly on the rich brownish-red soil
would rise like steam from its glass rim.
Inside, shavings of silver would gleam like diamonds in light,
and a cotton soft red wine would fill it
like the night does the sky.
And now as I sip from this natural perfection
I am reminded of your lips sweet interjection.
And as softly as the smoke had risen
toward the shadows of red light,
a kiss was lit and we both began to dance;
around your mouth mine had began to waltz,
slowly to and fro on tip toes being careful not to fall,
but you held me close and grasped me tight
like the red sky does the stars,
and like it and the wine that now fills my cup,
with you in that moment I was awe struck.