No room for me
The little creatures that lurk in my head,
They say there is no room for me
I don't posses the required amount of instability
It takes to be me
So they will do it instead
They will rewire me and fix me
These little hollow things will fill me
Then I shall be hallow too

My brain is still in prayer,
Following an apology for the same sin about to be committed.
Sort of like the reflections we see amongst ourself in other people.
Pointing out only the things we see in ourselves.
That sort of stand up comic that points fun of that one guy in the front row, never really taking in consideration that same guy could be waiting on him after the show.
That cynical psychology of growing up with siblings.
Would you think twice if you seen chickens standing out of a fast food place.
The ethical influence of hunger dissipating as they
Stand there patiently waiting for the unnext best thing.
Love is relentlessly blind.
A hunger that never really seems full.
Are we the glutens chasing something without a face only knowing taste.
Staring lovingly into each other's eyes but in actuality craving chicken.
What suppresses this urge.
Besides the hope that this Sprite isn't flat

I'd like to think of her as a bible,
One undeniably within reach.
Free to the touch, the embrace of saving myself well, from myself.
Hearing myself in a way not thought possible.
I Convenient to the word she speaks.
The tenderness of realizing that the next moment is not promised.
Though I rejoice in taking the next moment as a promise.
Knowing that if I shall close my eyes and tomorrow never comes.
That I'll be present wherever she is.
Understanding that the beauty of her is not easily obtained.
The excitement of sitting in silence.
Allowing her to probe my mind.
To heal the aches not easily curable by anything other.
The taste of palm to cover.
To be remade by a higher power.
The miracle of knowing.
The metaphorical essence of innocence

A sallowest silence drips,
drop  by  drop,
into open muddy palms

The ripple in the gathering cup
of hand, undulates within soul
like poignant ocean waves
eat away at the sands of time ,
just  below  where
a lighthouse beacon beckons
shining from someplace I can’t find

A hidden pathway
lies  untrodden
beneath a thousand
dew drop clad ferns ,
fronds bestrewn with autumn’s
befallen sleight of hand
swaddled in her fading
manifest guise

Where wild mushrooms
rise  blindly  from
resplendent darkness
beneath silken earthen moss ,
to teach the parables ,
how fleeting a moment passes

The moment enwrapped
in nature's solicitude ,
the  only  shelter
mother nature's own refugees
whom dwell in an ever fugitive
sense of belonging

Fallen Lichen scattered
like  wild  feathers ,
traces from a higher ground ;
sown bread crumbs
of  the  heavens ,
abandoned like slowly falling
snowflakes upon a labyrinth
coursing    beyond
emerald dank bejewel

Leading me willingly onward
beyond belated familiarity ,
exiled  void  of  affinity
a Trumpeter swan
in search of wapatos

The stone cold silent languor
rises  up  through
thickly grasping moss

Wind  stirs the ennui
with a breath of kindness ,
chilling a body in a soul
as cold as lonely stone ,
sheathed beneath
its hard yet fragile disguise

A twisted pathway
leading  somewhere  
I  yearn to follow ;
somewhere unknown
beckoning  from
deeply hidden hope
and its urgent calling

Somehow the uncertainty
of the path I am drawn
makes   me   feel
a  little  less  removed

Assured by the gentle touch
deeply rooted ancient earthen spirits ,
beyond doubt , I’m never alone
deep beyond wooded margin
Cocooned in creation’s sanctuary
mother nature’s own refugee ...



                                                          ­*wild is the wind

You,
Yes you!,
I call you forward,
Can you hear?

Why did you neglect?
Why did you abandon?
Why do you flee?
What do you fear?

If logic is your friend,
And confusion, your enemy,
Then how come you've fallen,
Into a trap, far worse,

Than that of,
All of these phonies,
And all the disloyal fathers,
And the unwell mothers,

you have miserably failed,
You have successfully,
Disappointed the wall clocks of time.

I had told her about my pin badges -
It was that kind of intimacy.

I had written poems about her -
It was that kind of intimacy.

She returns with another present,
In fact, more than one,
Despite being a woman scorned -
It was that kind of intimacy.

One, a postcard, to return my gesture,
A memory we shared together -
It was that kind of intimacy.

Two, a pin, she travelled to find,
Searching to fix something that
Was never broken.
To her, this was a failure,
To me, it was
Our kind of intimacy.

And three, a notebook,
Because she knows what I love,
And that words lie deep inside of me,
Screaming to come out.

I write this to her to apologise
For being a fool, and to thank her
For her undying encouragement
And her endless inspiration
And her kind, warm words -
A beautiful friendship married
By the endless embers of
Written words -
Our kind of intimacy.

Our life moves in circles,
always in the same blood vein,
every ending, every goal it's a new beginning.
Like a cloud i change, in time colour and shape
together entangle and i suspire in lifes thread...

Each one of us alone marches on, in love, in glory,
in death.
I know, i've tried...
It does not help, let me come with you...