Let my words bleed,
Bleed truth,
Bleed life,
Bleed love.
Let my words bleed for you,
Staining the paper red
With my Self.

Red, green, blue, orange,
Black and gray and white,
Purple hues and yellows too
And colors of the night:
These are the pigments
That fill our world,
Morning, noon, and night.
How foolish it would be
If we couldn’t see
The colors of the day.
But we can hear and smell
And taste them, too,
So they never truly leave.

My Time is broken now—
Or maybe it always has been.
Yesterday seems so crisp,
Until it becomes Yesterday.
Years ago have been preserved perfectly
Within the recesses of my mind,
And yet Two Days Ago
Eludes my desperate grasp.
The ages blur together,
With only a clear snapshot in-between.
Where is the Doctor?
Where is the Repairman?
How much longer must I wait
Before my Time runs smoothly once again?

I hear the breathing of souls around me,
Hear each intake and exhale of life.
I hear the shuffling as they shift in their sleep,
And my heart sings them a soft lullaby.
I see them stretching as they yawn,
Stretching to the eternal sky.
I see them as they grow and learn,
Testing whatever waters they face.
I taste the sweat and blood they shed
And feel their joys and sorrows as my own.
I smell the very essence they leak
From every pore, every crack in their hearts.
I hear every intake and exhale of life,
The breathing of souls around me.

They wish to lionize me,
But I refuse.
I turn my face away
But still look them in theirs
And tell them plainly,
“No, that’s not for me.”

A mouse is a mouse
No matter how big
The mane that’s ****** upon it.
A lion roars,
So big and proud,
But he lazes about in the sun
As his fur grows warm
And his eyes grow heavy.
A mouse is small,
But she’s busy.
Her heart pounds fast
As she avoids being seen
While at the same time
Leaving traces of her existence.

The lion will never
Sneak around in secret,
And the mouse will never
Boldly squeak for attention.

A mouse is small;
Any mane would go unnoticed.
A lion is big;
It will be noticed even without his crown.

And as a mouse
Will never be lionized,
Neither will I.

In and out, in and out.
The seagull cries.
Colors blend and wash ashore,
Drifting in from beyond the skies.

In and out, in and out.
Clouds drift lazily o'erhead.
Winds blow soft and harsh,
Touching where no foot has tread.

In and out, in and out.
The sea salt sprays.
Solid shapes are distorted,
Becoming lost in the haze.

In and out, in and out.
The waves lap the shore.
The sea foam leaps up and o'er,
Dissipating with a silent roar.

In and out, in and out.
The seagulls cry.
In and out, in and out,
The sea will never die.

The colors used to be separate
And lined up neatly in rows.
One could clearly tell just where
One color ended and another began.

But something happened.
Something changed.

The colors melted, swirled
Together on the canvas and
Dripped down, down, down,
Down the canvas, the canvas
That began to stretch and stretch
Off the table and across the floor
And out the door, off to infinity.
There's just a mixed, melted mess
Dripping down my arms and into my lap.
But it hasn't ended yet.
Will I end up consumed,
Or will I make sense of the chaotic colors
Once again?

What words there are to express
The frigid beauty that’s encased
In the fragile film of frosted glass.
The glittering frost that lies on top
Shines forth with pin-***** stars,
Flashing brilliantly white before fading
To a pacific, powder blue
Tinted with a faded lilac hue.
And housed within its cold embrace
Is a soft mystery of timeless age.
Its fleshy tones swirl, unmeshed, together,
Painting stories within stories
And realities within dreams.
The pearl bows and greets the jay
Who waltzes with the jade;
The ruby stretches slowly
As the coral wakes beside it.
And all above their thin-pressed heads,
A frozen dome of crystal
Breathes its breath into the wind.

They think it so big,
So beautiful, so full of promise.
They think it bright and shining,
Full of some inner light.
But they don’t see it.
There’s a lens right in front of their eyes,
Magnifying it beyond normal limits.
It’s not big, not beautiful,
Not as full of promise.
It’s not bright or shining,
It has no inner light.
It’s just plain.
They get so confused when it fails
To satisfy their demands.
And it shrinks from their confusion.
It doesn’t want to confuse
Or disappoint or anger.
It just wants to be seen
For what it is, without a lens.

All they see is a white rose,
White and unblemished.
To them, the thorns are dulled
And hardly even there.
They poke and **** it,
Hoping or seeking to find
At least some sort of gray
Among its pure white petals—
And they find nothing.
So they sit back contentedly,
Satisfied to watch this white rose
Bloom to its full extent.

But they do not see.

For inside this rose of snow
Is a bud of blood.
The inside of this blood bud
Is black and rotting,
Withering and dying.
The taint has begun to work its way
Through the needle-thin veins
And is carrying its gray
To the tips of the petals.

And still they see nothing.
Still they see only unblemished white.

The edges are neat and crisp,
And the wrapping paper gleams
In the weak sunlight
Filtering down from above.
Old, wrinkled hands reach out
And grasp the boxed gift.
Flakes of charred, black skin
Drift down upon it like ashen snow.
Slowly, carefully, the trembling hands
Undo one corner after another,
Flap of paper after flap of paper,
Until at last the brown box shows through.
The box is opened by the hands
As someone waits nearby,
Watching patiently to the end.
The box at last is opened,
And the gift inside is revealed:
Nothing is inside that box,
Nothing but air.
Confused, the hands life pleadingly
To the watching man nearby.
The man smiles warmly
And grasps the hands in his.
Instantly, the hands are healed--
New skin blooms
Where there once was burnt flesh.
And together, the two--
The new and the old--
Disappear into a golden light
That’s pouring from the box.

The cream expanse is withered,
Dry and cracking in the heat.
The black words on the pages squirm,
Wriggling like worms in the haze.
At the same time, the cream is frozen,
Brittle and flaking in the cold.
The black words lie dormant,
Still and lifeless on the page.
And yet in this world of cream and black,
There’s another color that appears.
Its bright red crimson is glowing,
Leaking from the holes in the letters,
Dripping from the edges of the page.
The black text is alive;
The cream paper it inhibits is alive;
How could anyone say differently
Once they’ve seen the sparkling passion?

When two things
Pull equally in opposite directions,
The object doesn't move.
When Red battles Blue,
Nothing gets done.
Red says one thing,
But Blue says another.
Only Blue
Can see both Black and White;
Red only senses them.
Both are Purple,
So which is correct?
Red wants to rush ahead;
Blue wishes to hold back and wait.
What will happen?
Who will win?

There's Green,
Standing off to the side.
It's lost its voice;
Blue and Red
Have stopped listening long ago.
The words have stopped coming
From Green.