Here lies a man,
sleeping sound in a bed
in his hospital gown
with much gauze on his head.

He lost his eyes, just three hours before.
He lost his eyes, now he can't see the floor.
He lost his eyes, but by golly he won.
He lost his eyes, when he stared at the sun.  

Here lies a man.
He is blind, but he speaks.
He says, "I might not have eyes,
but I've two hands and two feet,
and I might not have eyes,
but I surely can see,
for I've lifted my pride
and I've bested the beast."  

"But what good," said his nurse,
"is a man with no eyes,
with no sight and no vision,
just two sockets of white?"

So, he bested again,
when he riddled her mind
and said "What good is that mouth,
if you can't open your eyes?"

Dark green seeds plant
tall and sturdy trees
of greed and jealousy
within my heart.

Light blue warriors of
wisdom fight valiantly
for the health of my soul
and mind, but in time
the trees become the
caricature of what
I have become.  

All I wanted was
to be something small.
To plant my own trees
from yellow seeds
that breed happiness and love.

Roses, gray,
lay still by the trees of my heart.
And until I finally find
the truth behind the
loves which I have made,
then they shall not depart.

What is the sound of wind, when it is still?
The voice of God; not of common nature.
Will His will be that of a saving pill,
gradually easing the pain and hurt?
Not to be so blunt or overbearing;
subtle and often thought to have been gone;
found in time of heart's wearing and tearing;
patience shall prove the world to have been wrong.
Common stares of displaced disappointment;
the love of passion and passion of love
that speaks and heals; it, a hidden ointment;
messages sent by means of still'ed doves.
Nought of punishment or chasten of sin,
in the presence of a quiet God's whim.

*An old sonnet I wrote.

I'm wondering how passionate
and quite truly immaculate
the rhythm has to be,
for me to see
how every single note
brings a rattle to my bones,
and shakes the fringes of my soul
until I fin'ly lose control,
but then I know,
and every second as it grows,
I start to show
the very essence of the mold,
until my heart decides to blow,
and then I'm left
with all the pieces
of a smiling
abode;
the sonic waves that were composed;
the very rhythm and it's home.

So, turn your hands
and open your palms,
and life will give you gifts.
Change might come
and spin you 'round,
but your heart will find its lifts.  

Plow your lands
and plant your seeds,
and watch them as they grow.
Water them
and pray for them,
and reap more than you've sown.

And if happiness is what you want,
then listen to me speak.  
There's secret to the sunlight.
'Tis a gift that's always free.
Free love and light and sustenance,
without the old "give me!"

Pale bones corroded,
structured in squares,
sit idly,
and stare.

They always stare.

A lofty bed,
with wrinkled cottons.
Tattered blanket.
Pillows shuffled all aloof.

The curtains are closed.

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.

I am only an enigma to myself.  
I can only foster words from the books on my shelf,

But I found a box full of lines never used
in a home, over-bruised; compensated with ruse.

The ruse was the house in the sense of its looks,
for on a block full of mansions, it held only books.

The floors were all battered, the water pipes groaned,
and the windows were shattered inside of the home.

But if one thing it taught me, this mansion, a crook,
is some enigmas might vanish if on the inside we looked.

You see me,
an open man.
Strong and tall,
with massive hands.

I see me,
a brittle soul.
With broken
bones and
rotted whole.

And every day,
when I awake,
my weary bones
begin to shake.

And every night,
I end my fight
to free myself
from endless plight.

But, perhaps,
upon tomorrow,
some'one will cure
this old man's sorrow.

Blankets of blankness sit staring blankly into thine eyes,
while piercing wails of silence cradle in lobes of flesh.
Seal'ed doors of unframed bricks sit idly, occluding the sight of thy mind.
All the while, focus evades the perilous thoughts that thresh.

Still, well-knowing that of thy key to openness,
which lieth still within thy breast,
must, perhaps, be lost at best,
in cold, dark lying emptiness.

I was sitting outside,
smoking a cigarette
with three of my favorite pals,
and I looked at each one of them,
and I told them,
"I love how,
right now,
we're happy.
And how,
when I look in each of your eyes,
I can see the smile that isn't even on your face,"
and then we smiled,
and I went back inside.