Everthing passes through that Arbor Vitae,
Anything and everything, living or slain.
Its great branches store the fruit of memory,
Letting us understand, love, the reverie.
Fondness and hatred alike,
That great trunk rooted in our psych.

There is nothing we can feel,
There is nothing we can taste,
There is nothing we can hear,
There is nothing we can see,
There is nothing we can DO,
Without that great tree of life.

Twisting vines,
Turning emotions,
Growing leaves,
Retaining memories,
Deep roots for reassurance
No wind shall move your greatest durance.

At the entrance of your feild of dreams,
At the edges of the reality seams,
Light is shed in the world of you,
Give that great tree a view,
Darem eam libertatem, ne putaveris:
Cura et dilectionem pro arbor vitae.

the air is clammy, and my hair is on end.
the shades have drawn but my curtains are open.


the looming creature crawls across the sky, lurking nearer.

such swift summer heat disappearing instantly.

the leaves crunch, crawl, and scrape.

out there, i would fear the booms and grumbles.
out there, the blundering weather has bounded into the yard.


the gloomy, depressing clouds are larger than ever and weigh down the air.

however.

i’m at peace.


a new discussion arises between myself and a friend, or maybe no friend at all, but a discussion all the same.

i find comfort here.

i seek refuge when otherwise not needed.

But the boisterous bazaar begins to recede, barely able to hear, the crowd keeps crawling across the sky.


as quickly as it started, i find myself longing for another reason to feel comfort-another reason to seek refuge…

For here, i feel comfort.

to touch the hills,

the tall, flat valleys,

to taste the smell of the green,

to feel the sound of the heat,

oh to be nourished.

to be FED, and REALLY fed.

the noisy smells and the textured tastes,

how my senses are sensing.

bon voyage, clarity

hello excitement.

my home, my life, my love, my HEART,

here.

static…DYNAMIC.

it means nothing here.

here.

here.

HERE.

Heartbeat
Empty glass.
Droning fan, trying to write.
****.
Writer’s block.
But it’s more than that.
Every writer can eventually find the words.
Maybe I’ll take other’s advice and make words up?
How?
If the dictionary can’t explain it,
How can
I?
Beautiful, perfect.
Want?
Need.
No. still too common.
The words I’m looking for don’t exist,
No alliteration,
No rhyme,
Irony,
No assonance, allusion, slant, idiom, pun,
Simile, metaphor, nothing
Would allow me the
Ability to
Write the words I want.
The only language that exists to me
Now is the language
Of my pulse.
Remind me I’m alive?
My feet are cold,
My palms clammy.
So
How
To
Say
What
I
want?
It
Can
Not
Come
From
My
Heart.­
But.
By.
My.
Soul.
Make.
This.
Real.
Heaven?
I
want days where I can
sit in the dark.
Not see, but feel you.
Not physically. Feel your emotions radiate.
Repair your heart.
Even if you don’t know it is me.
You are the beat,
The life,
To my
Heart.
But I don’t want my heart.
I want my soul.
Take.
It
All
From
Me.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

the rain is always paired with wind.

wind always influences the rain,

not intentionally, but simply because it’s there.

rain is stagnant without the wind,

deemed completely useless, stain

on only one point, incredibly unfair.

it keeps pittering,

keeps pattering,

spitting at me,

the wind is too strong.

my heart is reigning.

How did we fall asleep?
I always ask myself. . .
Trying to concentrate. . . to find. . . to dream. . .
What is the fine line between reality and. . . .
THIS?
More importantly, how did we get here?!
. . . Start my cycle of wondering. . .
how. . . . when. . .
I got where I am. . .
My realization is hazed, for asleep I always fall. . .
Proving to me that the. . . my. . . our problem is part of the solution. . .
Becoming a bigger problem, thus.
For when I ponder that line, I cross it. . . sleep. . .
Trying to cross back to reality. . .
But what is reality?
Is THIS awake, and the. . . my. . . our pleasant past the dream?
I cant stop thinking. . .
How. . . what. . . why. . .
When will we awake, rub our eyes,
And see the Solution?

In the heat of life,
The "red wheel barrow" of my life is my fan,
Nursing me to rest after the long day,
My misery, my distress, masked by the noise,

The pleasant droning heals the pain of the knife
In which away, I constatly ran.
"Move, move, move, away!"
My fan would always say, as to sleep I deploy.

The sounds of laughter peircing my ears like the fife
In the war, while I lay alone wishing for some man,
To step into my life, save me like the sun's ray on a rainy day,
Who can comfort this little boy?

But the tears dry as the droning fan blows,
And I find comfort as the laughter fades behind the doze,
The buzz, the drone, the comfort of something that reigns constant,
The hum, the static, the constat rant.

It keeps me company.