Not of wind
Or of wills
Or of ways to be
Though we spoke of truth
And of the tombs of Kings
Most gallantly
No
The words were never recognized
As they flowed so freely from within
To peak the howling wind which we both liked to describe
The past, and there, therein

Does a bent bow know its own true strength?
Or an arrow the path it will inevitably fly?

Does a tree choose to grow so as to spread its roots?
Or an acorn to fall just to avoid parents reproof?

Does a song ever know when an earworm becomes?
Or a breeze ever realize that it’s unheard of to you?

Can such questions fall slowly like a newborn snow?
And yet not meet their demise on the wet, cold, grounded truth?

Who knows of such things as this?
Maybe you?

Ache consumes me through
Like snow melting on the rails
You saturate mine

Clever call me not
Late to truth perhaps so worth
never without thought

can we just stare into each others eyes again
and not know all of the things which — seem to be
but — have always been?
















it's 3 a.m. again, friend.

Stuck is nothing more than everything

When in eyes unseen it is realized that
There is no breath without first breathing
No baseline without hearts first beating

And in unified personified existence being
There is no whatsoever love forsaken
Without ever first the chance of breaking

True youth
Is like a window
Reflective found
Once realized
Which side of it
Are on
You?

Familiarity follows those
Who have gone out already and found

When you love them more than you love you
The happenstance will've already happened

And in whistling through this life of old
Remember then the better, bitter, end

Are you breathing for alive
Or are you just sleeping through sounds?

You ache due to the most familiar paths
Known well to feet
And even more so etched in memory

More of the same
More of the same

Listen to the snow
Rising, sweeping across this
Hallow winter rose

No flower ever
Sees to live in fields of white
Let alone let's grow

Stars burn far as sands
From head to foot underneath
And the moon looks down
In earnest reverie at
The wonder of why we ****

Long strides
His flashing coattails on the countryside
Winding like a sight but for a desperate moment
No less in his footprints often found

But as a pumping heart with a walking pulse  
And a wondering mind no more contrived
He knows not yet instead
He decides

We are springs of refreshing mind
Reaching out
From the cooling rock and reaping soil

Not cloud and thunder
Oak and root
Or spring and flower without song

Not star or fire
Grass or mire
Or ocean rumbling as a throng

Yet it's down below from which we pool
The thoughtful self most fulfilling
From which we ought to base and pull

When I click, or scratch, or dial the wheel
or breathe out slow smoke, one, two three.
When I kick and grasp at nothing, and something
which grows high as the sky, and slowly as the trees, you see?  
How the ink runs dry
and the intent an ocean quells.
That each time the clock unwinds
another mountain flood, rolls itself down
onto an unsuspecting parchment town.
Little this is never free; the known things,
And why I send to you these things,
each time alive when I am found

That is the glorious peeking dawn
Youthful flowers in a denim vase
Pure beauty beneath, behind the face

This rain has met its match in me
Such short ends becoming nothing

Bursting I am lonely at all
Not a heartthrob

But tall as Pine and less of Willow

It’s just a breeze

I ache when you’re not here

Uncharted days
Ahead stretch out
Like a season known
With all its ends

And the scent of you
The smell itself
Is what keeps me back
From running therein

Essence, my cornerstone

My coffee heart turns
And headache burns
Into nothing less
Than a Monday furnace

Expectations are dangerous things
Don't stand, lest you fall
Try, or fail to try, lest you become someone
Either way heartbreak comes for us all

If you could just see me when I'm alone
You might just fall in love me
The only problem is
That I don't let anyone see ME
When I'm alone

A man can write
For 58 years
( And )

Have his legacy contained
In less than two inches
( It is a crime )