Maybe it’s because we want to seem ok
To disregard the hurt and pain that we feel inside on our emptiest days
Maybe it’s because we wish things were different
To have the slightest bit of hope hanging from a thread, intertwined with the aching of our hearts
Maybe it’s because we aspire for change
To long of a time where the universe aligns with our internal clocks and gives us just one last chance.

But maybe it’s because we know that chance will never come
And the burn marks of our inner misery turn into scars we can never ignore
To wear our suffering on our sleeves and let the agony of our existence cloth the rest of us
Maybe it’s because in soul-time we know certain thoughts may never come and lie to rest
To let our daydreams last till nightfall and whisper our deepest desires to the moon.

But when morning comes, the heights of grey turn to yellow, for the sun shall always rise
And we awaken ourselves, returning back to the reality of lies
We look at our reflection, a clear image of our despair
For what we can see may never be of deceit
And our crooked smiles tell the real truth between you and me.

Your half-surrender was
unique. Going home to find the truth
of end of a beautiful story.

A mid-life pain takes
the memories in lake of fire. The
saga of urgency of moon ends.

Once there was a name
to solve the cognizant problems
of truth. Now prevails the virtual.

Pride, like a ****
Swelled with dawn
I sing to the world

This World gives
To me great gifts
A fire to my breath

Sunset will break me

I was a bird
پرنده ای بودم
In the sky
From your eyes...
...در آسمانی از چَشمانِ تو
When you didn't see me flying
در آن هنگام
که پروازم را حس نمی کردی

Why are your eyes so beautiful?!
چرا چَشمانِ تو آنقدر زیباست!؟
That I released the lock of hair
To your wide blue sky...
که من موهایم را
...در آسمانِ پهنِ آبیِ تو رها کردم

open doors and unscalable walls
one lets you enter the other embodies formidable
experience, discernment, and acceptance
two give you an edge, the other a road to freedom

goodbye will outstay hello
and memory will make up what cannot be remembered
where there are no blanks, only darkened rooms.

When I think of those days, I only
remember gathering wood in the cold
in my black coat so I could get a fire going
in the cast iron of a gray early morning;
I dream what it is to be a man lying
beside a delicate woman, sad and quiet,
playing the mandolin, looking at her as
if she were a couple of plums together like
a cluster within reaching distance on the branch;
thinking of the lunar dust of her face, and how
her fingers were like feathers; I heard
the silence of the mill wheel not turning
in the stream and the wild turkeys not drinking;
I knew they had hypnotized themselves wide-
eyed and staring into the steel ax of the creek.