Much poetry
May fade quickly
From memory.
Though there are such
That move us much,
Our souls do touch.

Catch us off guard
Or strike a chord,
Our hearts reward.
Some witty, wry
Some make us cry
Or wonder why.

Others inspire
Dreams and desire,
Ignite a fire.
Many appeal
for they are real,
They make us feel.

The truly great
Reverberate,
They resonate.

With the momentum of a setting sun, the subtlety of stars,
We embrace a world that we created, still we cannot make it ours,
You walk your television talk, turn and shoot from your smile,
Ride atop your highest horse, enjoy the view from denial,
When the whole world is medicated, cure becomes the disease,
Either fall in line and be counted, or learn to fight from your knees,
They tore our cities asunder, and from ash built angrier gods,
We compromised for the children, now they consider us frauds,
Losing our souls to the static, drowning in manufactured waves,
Content to be the heroes that no one needs and no one saves,
On a slow search for Heaven, or at least more interesting sins,
But an ending is still an ending, no matter where it begins.

Float it down the river;
a bottle with a note
full of fragile words and folded without hope:

"To whom it may concern,
I've grown weary of the worries -
worn down by the constant sound of thoughts spilling out of my head -
burnt out on turning down every opportunity to be saved.
One day, I'll get away,
but I'm in no hurry.
By the time you read this, I may already be dead,
but I might not be."

Standing in the sand with toes dug in deep;
watching the sun gleam off a bottle as it shrinks into the distance.
Goodbye to all the worst parts of me.

Hello horizon.

Over the glaciers of a dream,
gingerly,
I made my way to something beautiful last night.
I remember
nodding my head to myself—
“Yes, this is it! This is it!”
Waking up,
I hadn’t the faintest notion
what it was.

The only way to smooth the edges is to keep them tumbling constantly.