Yes, self
Reading is romantic still
If it's done by a supermodel
Sure

Noone is coming to turn your eyes like pages
Sorry

I trick myself
More often than most
That the time before me will feel better
(somehow)
Than the air which I now breathe most close

It won't

Time is time
Just as a perception is a vision of the mortal mind
Most unknown
Heck, I
Need to learn how to live for the moment of most

It's time

I cannot satisfy myself with flowers
Out of fear of never seeing the trees
Swim in puddles
When I know that I ought to dance in the ocean
Selfishly, I'm not sorry now
Though I may once have been
If you are niether as tall or as deep as these
But I want no wattage less than sunshine
No new life born of less than me
You will learn this quickly, perhaps
That I am a proud and patient sort of being

Deep like oceans
Flowing like rivers
Falling like leaves
And growing like trees
     Running like the animals atop the earth
     Sounding like horns on the holy night
     And burning like the sun in the summer sky
          True like the words the apostles did speak
          And round like the earth with its edges beneath
               Stained like ink
               And pressed like books
               And tested like an automobile which looks
               Like Christmas morning gifted to man
                    Like the clattering of pots and pans
                    And the soothing touch of a mothers hand
                         Like this, like that
                         Is what love is to me
                              But what love is for you
                              May still yet to be seen

It is right
And no wonder that I saw
And wrote you as starlight

Because I cannot touch you

And I need a loving vision
Alive and learning
And closely burning

Not at a distance
And for that, I'm not sorry

Sorry

I’m going to plaster my words on the walls of life
Like paper
That way you cannot avoid me
Or the memory of mine

Just as a heart will not be cheap
Or doted upon everywhere
Or rolled out with ease

But plastered meticulously
That’s me

Love is a dance ... not a chase
And both partners need to step up
And do the ultimate about-face
And
Embrace

Some mountains just refuse to be climbed
Don't dispair, or blame, or take it personally
No, the no trespassing signs are of their own design

Close
Far
Warm breath
Cold air burning beneath southern stars

Quiet
Noise
A comforting voice
In ears at last a presence being, my present

Which is louder
   ?  

   The silence
   You create
   For yourself
   ?

   Or the silence
Left
   When someone else
   Doesn't want
   To create
   With you
   ?

We
     the leaves
     the snow
     the rain flow
We all
     fall

The world alone is not enough
        It was never a shade of me

Though from the earth, the straw men rise and fall
        There also blows the breeze
        More beautiful than all once seen

Would you hide with me, unwind with me?
Would you sew my home for an hour or so?
Would you let me cook for you into the night unknown?

Would you listen to me, would you speak the words?
Would you fall back into the quiet, until, we can hear the obnoxious chirping birds?

Would you want my hand as I want your mind?
Would it matter if I asked you for just a little more time?

And your body, your spine, in its perfect align.
Is but a hopeful wish for distant tomorrow.
One that belongs to the keeper of heart in due time.

But then, in such situations as this, to ask...
Would my courage not fail me?
Would such moments now last?

It doesn't matter if I haven't. Because I've seen enough to cloud my eyes a thousand times over...

The open road is openly, the place for an open opportunity of mind...

Pictures placed at the heart of mankind, do not last. Not even the servers will satisfy or survive...

Every word I ever wrote about the ever loving trees was never for me...

Turn a new page, open up. Maybe today you will not stop and let the story die inside. But instead draw it out, into the pages where it ought to reside...

Love is such a shallow thing, its nothing like it presents itself to be...

Give me a structure that is not my own and I will not believe in it. Tell me my structure I cannot do and I will invest hours thinking about it. Excited for it...

The only truly haunted walls are those that are plain and bare of thought...

This mountain knows my every move
From memories pulled like frigid springs
It remembers how my childish feet
Once loved to steer, and weave, and groove
This mountain knows my through of through

And even when old days are spent
And my parents go into their own recluse
My children will find a youthful strength
And stammer with joy about
And why?
Because this mountain loves the way we move

I can feel it still
I can sense it through

If the London air tasted anything like this
I'd pray for wings and spout quick as can be

And fly to another continent so fast
It would make your head spin

If only tea were in the air
As in flavor pallet here it is with me

The only windows
which appeal to me
Are the two of gleaming intrepid green
        which I see in you