I wander, lost. Am I a spirit,
to wander so, sad and lonely,
cut off from the roiling, chaotic,
masses of humanity, and set to
wander, adrift in a brilliant sea,
vivid colors clashing always,
with the ever present void of
Infinity?

You are writing. Yes I am writing. But why?
For the ease of my soul. But why? For the
time spent well. But why? For my own sake.
Father, why do you not spend time with me?
Little son. One day you will understand. The
line of days runs ever on, the sun will mind it's
course, but life is a costly thing my son, and I must
pay its price. But Father, life must surely also be, of
play and laughing joy? Come outside and play with
me, for the day is fading and time is short. Come Father
and play with me, let life be patient and mind its cost.
Little son. You know I cannot. Go and find your mother,
she is blessed with ample time, to stem your flow of
questions, and slow your growing heart. Goodbye
Father. Goodbye, my son.

I am standing,
at once in place,
at once afar,
thinking, love,
my swift flown
dove, I am
thinking thoughts
of you, down by the
rivers edge, where the
waters ran so blue, and the
Stars twinkled down like
angels in the heavens,
when we kissed, that first
time, so near a time, and yet
so far away. I am thinking, love,
my dearest flower, while the wind
comes blowing coldly,
and the mist comes slowly rising,
I am thinking thoughts of you.

I hear the waves rushing, hear them sighing in and
out, with the currents and the tides and the ever present
moon. A salty breeze brushes past, soft and fleeting, as that
last and gentle kiss, before you broke and said goodbye, and
left me standing there, beneath the glowing moon. The great
fronds of the giant palms rub together in the wind, and whisper
of untold secrets, hidden since the beginning, and of the pain of
a lover lost. The seagulls scream, mournfully their cries, echo down
to me, and remind me of the time, when my heart was still fresh
broken, and I wept 'neath starry skies. I am silent now. I am listening.
Waiting for her merry laughter, for her softly padding feet, carrying
her to me, back to me, across the sands of time and grief. I am waiting.
Come back to me my ever-love, come back to me.
Please?

I am standing here, staring into a dim horizon
while the wind sighs past, eternal and uncaring,
bearing with it the tattered remnants of poems,
legion in their number, forgotten and left to fade
away and be taken by the wind. With every step
I make, across this cold and grey place, words
are crushed beneath my feet, their meanings
failing, as they rise and take their places, within
that wind of empty promises, of broken loves and
hollow sighs. I lift my gaze, up from the dust of
my creation, rising slowly and with the grace of
gentle death. I see the horizon there, see it
glowing unconcernedly with the light of a thousand
thousand thoughts, and swaying gently with the
bubbling waves of happy joy, swaying with their
laughter, with their tears and quiet sorrows. We stand
here forgotten, the old and faded words and I, watching
Witt an envy dulled by time and the ever present wind.
We are watching, they and I, as we too, at last are faded away,
eroded by the constant wind, and the hollow sighs of forgotten
words as they rise to join that lonely wind, bleak with the dying
dust of a thousand thousand words, and their sorrows,
as they pass.

I sit in bed, my hair, ruffled and undone, eyes blurry
from lack of sleep, while I wonder what to say. Searching
the farthest depths of my mind, for as far as I can fathom
for as long as I can, I search within, for what to say to move
you, to laughter or to tears, serenity or despair, hope or a sense
of loss, deep within the pit of your stomachs, that moves you to
tears, some shed some not, while you stare at my last and final
lines and touch with your index finger, shaking, or click with your
pad or mouse, a small icon, down at the bottom of your screen,
the bottom of the poem, that indicates so much, that brings so much
joy, at so very little effort on your part, all you who have glanced at my
poetry and, deeming it mediocre, have moved on, even as the lines and syllables of my heart and lessened soul fall from your attentions, and fade from your hearts. I am reaching now, reaching far within myself,
for the courage to spit these words out onto this glowing screen, late at night, with the promise of an early dawn visible on my small clock, green letters glowing like some poisonous chemical, mixed with the sewage of a rotting city and the vileness of all the cruel and hateful thoughts, uttered and imagined by all of mankind, within our short and  devastating history. I have found it. I beg you now, all of you, all who merely glance at this, my desperate plea to all of you, out there in the shifting nothingness of cyberspace, to please, like or comment, tell me my work is ****, and that I should drown myself in the nearest roadside ditch rather than write again, for at least I would know, at least I would feel that my work elicits something from you, and that I at least, am not as great a failure as a writer, as a poet, as I am coming to believe. I beg you now, with all my heart and screaming soul, with all the rage and fury and bitter tears unshed you have elicited from my tired soul, read and comment, and like if you may, for I am tired of being ignored, and of the deep and lonely feeling of being alone and forgotten, unnoticed and uncared for, due to the mediocrity of my work, though my heart were poured into it and my soul spent to give it life. I beg of you. And now, tired as I am, I will sleep, and dream and wake and sleep again, for anxiety and fear. And perhaps this too will go unanswered, unnoticed, lost amid the vastness of cyberspace, glanced at but not read, not searched for any subtle glimpse of meaning I, the writer may have hidden in these words for you and you alone, out of the thousand thousand people, authors and browsers, who may come and, if they deign to glance at it closer, never feel the exact same emotions, and feel the same thoughts as you will have, for you are you, and I am I, and for all our differences, and for all that we may be a world apart, or living nextdoor, we are connected, just as everyone, and everything is , in this world, in this life. Find meaning in that if you will. Ha. And now farewell. I hope that my words will be heeded, at least to some extent. But then, they probably won't, for all the bitter truths and all the pain and rage and fury written here for all to see, for none to see. Farewell.