I look to the horizon with a spyglass,
Trying to discern what’s there.
A small child waits beside me,
And I clutch her hand;
She grips my hand in return
While clinging to the fabric I wear.
We have never been apart in all our years,
Ever since we first met.
I glance at her every now and then,
Look her full in the face,
See the wrinkles that line her eyes
And the pale complexion she shows.
Every so often we converse;
Her voice is still and quiet.
I have to strain to hear her words,
But she has to hear mine as well.
We talk about the days gone by,
The ones she’s living now
While to me they are events of the past.
And once our conversation is over,
I return the spyglass to my eye
And stare beyond the horizon.
I wonder what it’s like over there,
What lies in wait for me.
I imagine myself among those shores,
Wriggling my toes in the sand.
But the time has not yet come,
And I still have a child to care for.
I won’t ever let this child go,
And she knows this,
And adheres herself to my side.
I have been told to let her go,
To leave her with those who will care for her
In ways I never can.
To look around me instead.
But she looks at me with those wide eyes
And my heart is swayed.
So she stays with me on my journey
To beyond the merging of above and below.
And someday, someyear, the horizon
Will come to me, and I to it,
And at last I will know
What was waiting for me.

The clockhands spin,
‘Round and ‘round,
Trapped forever
In an endless cycle of chase and capture,
Flee and chase,
Chase and capture.
‘Round and ‘round
In an endless dance
That lasts long after the hands stop moving.
The hands will spin for eternity,
A backdrop to Life.

Plants
Feed off both the darkness
And the light.
They are planted in darkness,
Grow in darkness,
Survive the darkness.
They reach out through the black
And manipulate it
And thrive on it.
Then they reach the light, they still remain
Partially buried in the earth.
Just as an iceberg
Hides itself under the water,
So, too, do plants
Hide their amazing network
Of sturdy roots
Beneath the soil.
Many look at a plant
And marvel at its wonders
Without a second through
About the maze of life
That supports that
Which lives in light.

I see the tears,
Of anger, of sadness, of loss.
I know not anymore—
I have forgotten by now—
What happiness, joy, and thankfulness
Mean, what they look and feel like.
There is only darkness down here,
And I have hardened my heart
Against the pleas of humans
Lest my light be extinguished as well.
So when Orpheus came knocking
With his bright, lively music,
My heart was opened,
And I could feel it beating once more.
So this is what Love is,
How Happiness glows from within.
It was a beacon in my dark world,
And rekindled my hope.
It was for him and myself
That I let Eurydice go,
But my heart still encased
A small chip of ice,
And my cynical side
Told me I had to test him.
One simple request I gave,
One simple instruction:
Don’t look back; have faith
That your other half will follow.
I waved them off with pleasure
And a rosy hue warming
My cold blue flesh.
I wait with anticipation:
Their love is strong—
Surely this will work.
Surely they will both make it
To the flowers and the grass above.
But a wail and a sob drift to me,
And I feel a tug in my chest:
The feeling I get when a soul drifts down
And joins me in my dank, dark halls.
Eurydice sails past me, pale and blue;
She leaves a sparking trail behind her,
Filled with sadness and anger
And the faint taint of life.
I can see, in my special godly way,
Orpheus far above, crouching in the Sun,
His hands in front of his face
As tears burst from his shut eyes
And his heart is squeezed by invisible hands;
His golden lyre lies beside him, broken.
I close my eyes and sigh,
Disturbing the flames dancing next to me.
My soul count will increase by one
In three, two… one.

When the gold burns low,
And the tongues lick no more,
The shadows come out to play.
They leap and twist, hover and fall.
They bloom and they wither;
They chase each other
Around the dying lights.
They refuse to die, the shadows of light.
Yet die they must,
Along with their snaking friends,
And at last they are born away
By the wispy hands of the wind.

The black waters lap gently
At the shore of an obsidian beach.
I stand with my feet
Just submerged under the water,
My nails shining with kuro polish.
A shinigami waits beside me,
Its hands clasped behind its back
And its gaze fixed unblinkingly
At the distant, curved horizon.
Friends, enemies—I do not know yet:
All I know so far
Is that we’ve been standing here, together,
For quite some time,
And that every so often,
One of us will reach out
And clasp the other’s hand.

Let me see with the eyes of a child—
Pure, innocent, naive,
Unaware that mental boxes exist.
Let me see things in that special light
That shines forth from everyone,
Past any dark sins and evils.
Let Death return to an inquisitive curiosity
At the sudden stillness of an insect or a fish
And not bloom into a growing ache
That lingers in the heart.
Let the colors be revived
And all sights become brand-new.
Let the boundaries be erased
And laughter be drawn instead.
Let me see, as a child does,
The true power of a warm embrace
Or a friend that never leaves.
Let me see with the eyes of a child
Just once more,
Before even my current vision fails me.

If you see a set of footprints
Leading off into the distance,
Do not follow them their course.
You may follow them a ways,
But make sure it’s brief;
Do not follow them their course.
Turn to the left, or maybe to the right,
And forge ahead, my child—
Create your own set of footprints.
You may use the other footprints
For warnings—maybe models,
But it’s important that you make your own.
If you follow not others
And instead follow that which is in you,
You will see sights no one else has,
Accomplish feats unique to you.
Climb the mountains, cross the rivers,
Sail the oceans, survive the deserts,
Thrive in forests, and tame the tundra,
And your footprints will leave their mark
And you will be remembered.

If life is a tunnel,
It’s long and narrow.
It’s a maze of networks
In the bowels of the Earth.
Sometimes the tunnels
Are used for sewers instead
And you wind up slogging through muck.
At other times,
The tunnels are high and dry
And everything seems good.
Since the tunnels meld together
Into a near-endless labyrinth,
One can make many choices
And will dictate where one ends up.
The end result?
The Light at the end—
The opening to the surface world—
Or be trapped forever,
Wandering the heated, boiling center
With your life picked at
By nightmares.

A lighthouse,
Pure, bold, and strong,
A light in the darkness,
A reminder of things hidden,
A beacon to the lost,
A respite to for the weary,
A friend to the ones who have lost hope.
A lighthouse
Is an object, physical,
Real in the shifting fog;
A lighthouse
Is also a metaphor
And its uses stretch out
Like the light it shines forth.
It governs and protects;
It strengthens and it warms;
It does the job it’s meant to do
And remains a light for all.

The language drifts around like smoke,
Curling around fingers and through minds,
Whispering of things half remembered,
And hinting at new knowledge.

Blue and yellow arcs
Of pure energy,
Pure electricity,
Dance dangerous footsteps
On the thin wings
Of the butterfly.
Is it protection?
Or is it a curse?
Helpful or harmful,
Not even the butterfly knows.
The dangerous beauty
Holds audiences captive
As the energy arcs and leaps
To a tune others can’t hear.
Up and down, the wings flap
While the energy glows eerily
In the dark, (un)dreary night.
A flash of azure,
A sunspot spit out—
The black midnight body
Lit up by the light all around.

The tears streak down your cheeks,
And the snot leaks out your nose,
But you’re still beautiful.
There’s a certain beauty that radiates
From your eyes and from your face,
From your heart and from your soul,
A silent strength that you have trouble seeing—
Even with a special mirror.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
And I behold yours.