Grievous is the sight of a wilted rose
Fallen pedals lay at root’s feet
A graveyard of beauty faded,
headstones upon rows and rows.
Waning memories sprawled across Earth’s canvas
An army of life left to bear the weight.

No soul can escape the cycle we see
Paper doves fold into themselves,
left to sit flat and bare.

Yet before the loss settles,
Angels dive from the heavens
and hitch a ride on momentary whirlwinds
Conjured up by hearts of days gone.

On single saved breaths,
they whisper words of reassurance
With lips pressed to ear
So that their message will resonate
with booming notes of song,
reflective of their gravity.

Alluding to a plane of existence beyond the cycle
An existence not to be seen but felt
and known in absoluteness.

For tomorrow and the day next,
I forecast hoards of gray clouds,
intent on conquest of light.

But they can only hope to cover heaven’s beams for a time
For light is everlasting,
As echoes of love ones passed scatter
across the sky in loving luminescence.

Driven by an undying connection,
Souls of the departed lock arms
to hug and shield.

Within each storm lies tranquil eye
beckoning faithful path.

Many pulled into its wretches in dreams past

Offering their truths
only to then blur their meaning through finely-woven veils.

Showing the world whole
yet refusing to show its threads.

Standstilled moments in time allow for wishful minds to press face against window,
but long enough only
to see the destination.

For those who wish to take the path,
the eye echoes its message through faint  pulses.
In words seemingly without sound
which can only be surmised as clear on a higher plane.

The fundamentals needed to construct,
spoken in hushed tongue
and to be received through sight.

Only through understanding the function of all parts may the purpose make itself visible

To know the message is to live the message.
To commit to the path motivated by nothing other than blind faith.

Each step a pull into increasing whirlwinds of chaos
The ability to remind oneself of the faith that is blind

Bridging eyelid to eyelid as if laying pillows to final rest,
continuing on…

Stepping past the most intense waves
only to find nothing there.

To realize that that is the message.

To acknowledge the knowledge of one’s ability to maintain balance in an imbalanced world

To continue to step into the unknown,
motivated by faint echoes of those before

And for your journey to take their place as others will yours in days to come.

The folly of men
Will forever be
man’s greatest strength

A silent end
To a silent day
Yet still, I go to bed
And so does come
thoughts and dreams astray

So I drink enough
to dull an active mind
For the day next has always come
And morning has always been far more kind

The sun sneaks to my window
and tip-toes past my blinds

And once again
to the call of light
I do arise

I wash my face with water  
but still,
I cannot scrub away the dirt beneath my eyes

And for a time, I might forget
as the night has always come.
So I lay my head down once more again
knowing the sun’s rays will be there
in the morning
to wake me up.

Feeling lost in a sober plane.
Feeling found in a drunken ether.

I wake up to find myself,
further away
from where I was the day before.

I cover arterial wounds of the heart and mind with bandaids.
I seek out suppression,
not solution.

There is a fire within me.
It is painful,
but fire
leaves the potential
for the growth of something more.
Though the promise of what could be,
does not make the feeling
any less painful.

I pour water on the fire.
But it is a grease fire,
so it grows with each dump of the bucket.

A residue made up from all my wrongs,
and all the times I’ve chosen not to act
in accordance of my morals.
What I know to be the right path
but chose the wrong path instead
because it was easier.

When I first poured water on the flames,
I thought it would help.
But the flames grew.
I knew then,
that water would do more harm than good.

Yet,
I continue my attempts to put it out,
but still with water
because there is a spigot
at my feet.

I wonder why I feel lost.
But I know I feel lost.

Am I lost,
because I am far from where I started?
Am I right to feel lost,
if my moral compass
has always been in working order?
If I’ve made the decision to take another path
time and time again,
even though I trust my moral compass
to be right in its direction?

Is me feeling lost,
meant to be?
Deemed as necessary
from something or someone
I do not understand?

Is me feeling lost,
meant to be,
so that I will discover
a home of the soul?
A home furnished with inner peace,
exterior painted with love
for all the passersby
to feel.

I have a watch.
Movado with Roman dial, gold plating and a coffee-brown alligator grain leather band.

I have a pen.
Ballpoint with black ink, thin handle and a rosewood finish.

I have a notebook.
Moleskin with a leather bind, black cover and classically lined.

These things never change themselves.
Yet,
still they find a way to change me.

A man,
a mirror,
and a light.

The perceptions of this man,
go beyond sight.

A projection of the mirror
is itself,
an image distorted.

A twisting of what is real.
An image contorted.