Should I ever come to the end of my road,
when I  meet the doorman of death,
I shall hope that he care just enough to heed my last request.

I would not pray for hope, nor life, nor freedom.

I should ask him, "Dear Death,
might you listen to me now?

I beg to find my final breath
upon Earth's broken brow;

the crashing waves, day or night,
the pum'ling seaside cloud,

the falling rocks, their endless plight,
and distant ******* growls,

the fading sun, the rising moon;
I even feel their gaze.

Dear Death, I shall not wait the more,
please take me where I lay."

And though my face,
be it smiling,
presents an air of control,
I fear that I have lost it all.

And I brace myself,
for I predict that I will be buried
beneath the rubble,
beneath this teetering construct
that I have haphazardly built in my short,
short,
life.

And I have tried,
I have tried to forget that I built
this homeless house of mine.

And I have thrived,
I have thrived in my ignorance
once upon too many times,

and I shudder at the thought
that the "all" which I am destined to lose,
is really nothing.

Nothing at all.

I woke up to the sounds
of my friend heaving chunks
on the bathroom floor.

I can only imagine that war
is something like that.

a Wordsmith's ambition,
it is not something grand.
It is pleasant, and common,
though it's honestly bland.
For each world we desire,
all so beautifully planned,
there, no words can be written,
well, at least not by hand.

But our Pen is our Bible,
and We bleed it with sighs,
and I'm pleased to announce,
that by writing, We survive;
For the words that we've written,
every line we provide,
puts the world on our shoulders;
brings our image to life.

Consider for a moment,
a straggler of life;
his bag of misfit materials;
the empty train car he sleeps in, when he is lucky.

This, to the world,
is my soul to me.
A snowy field of minimalism,
tainted only by the brief, yet constant,
glimmer on the horizon.  

In this vision there is truth,
and hope,
There is truth,
and hope,
in loss and in lacking.
For as stragglers do wander,
their dreams provide homes to thoughts,
and warmth to sadness,
and medicine for wounds.

There was not always this brilliant field of white.
Before it, laid the maze of forestry,
the hovering shadow of fate.

Within the trees was confusion,
and within confusion was pain.
But, with the bright blizzard of chaos,
came the simplicity of love, and therein laid acceptance.

There are those who must chop trees to see the sunlight,
and there are those who simply find the fields of snow,
laying pleasantly within the reflection of the sunrise.  

This, to the world,
is my soul to me.
Wandering acceptance,
caught in the mess of falling trees.

I wake in a dream,
in a haze of the sea;
cascaded by waves,
every time my heart beats.

Every crest is a vessel,
of love or truth or cries,
every crash its own message,
spilling life behind my eyes.  

A harp's melody weeps,
singing sweetly to my mind,
and I find myself asleep,
as its beauty intertwines.

I'm left with this vision,
as I visit the light,
and I pass into nothing,
or to something divine.