Humans look at books and see
A thousand opportunities
Pages to turn and how they could be seen
By the other eyes
Naturally

Where skylines bend
And sunglow lights
Our pyre bed on which we live
Such combustive talks
And opinions which once were given
Give way to sleep, to rest, to need
And to an understanding so carved, so dutifully deep
That even skylines cannot touch or reach our valleys found
Where we are have been
In growing roots deep

A write is such a wrong
If found (in) to be nothing more
Than a turning out
Not of ideas
Or truths
Or questions
Or desires
But of disregard for craft
And the pretensions of these selfish liars

Create to make, not make sum

Give me amber warm
And woodgrain soft as sandstone
To meet with pressure
Over time and many miles
My hands will lead you homeward

11,541 days a breath
With nothing standing in my way
I can live and walk into the sure, unsure
Cutting paths to wilderness, song to wind
But to attribute THIS to my own success
Is but wishes and hopes
Nothing more or less

Dark skies are not black
Just devoid of light like oceans deep

And stars are not light
Just bright fires in the distant
Almost phosphorus sight
Of the galaxial eye

And the fact that we blink
Autonomic compulsive reactive
Shows that darkness exits
But only after for an instant flees

I call this, how things are

All the sunsets I regret
Are not for a lack of looking on
But for a lack of moving into them
As I ought