I want to be the last bough bending by a brook as a dozen on-lookers overstate the understood in a field of frantic fever-fighters fixated on the moon. Stop, drop, break a neck, then lay in bed and recollect the days  before the disconnect when you kept your bright eyes side-lined in complexified complacency while the golden winged effigy decayed into degen'****. Multi-state probes propelled by a whim skitter like arachnids on the surface of your skin with words like a finger pointing at the sun that stop making sense before their job lies done. Who now will step down celestially with alchemical agility just to let The Spirit flow through them with exponential intensity as imaginal orthogonality skips with divinity? When'll be best to choose to confuse and diffuse every up-tight, no-sight tool on the loose then flak shrapnel to the castle as a billion petty hassles gathered up and coalesced as interrupted innocence? 'Til then these strides keep pace with the center of the storm, just inside the whirling swarm of wailing souls abandoned and forlorn.

The empty office hums
as air-conditioned drums
rattle through the ventilation
and I sit idly with time for contemplation.
The day rolls forward unopposed.
As I've read: "So it goes."
With a sigh, I make my tea --
an infusion with elderberry --
but that alone doesn't warm a mind
limping out of tempo with the time.
My soul's too slow to keep this rhythm
of skewed self-perception and idiot-ism.

Know that I'm afraid to express my love sincerely,
because every person I've known I hold equally dearly.
Nothing special exists inside my love,
where no one is treated as below or above.
Now if you pass me on the street,
you'll know me when our eyes both meet.
I'll smile from my core for you
and I hope that you reflect it, too.

Many are the ones I've loved;
few are the ones I miss.
There's only one I'm thinkin' of,
and I left her up north in the mist.

I left one sunny summer day
south, to make a life.
Now that I've made my way
I don't think I was right.

Many are the ones I've loved;
few are the ones I miss.
There's only one I'm thinkin' of,
and I left her up north in the mist.

These city-folk aren't even sane,
and I don't think they care.
How can I enjoy the rain
if she's not even there?

Many are the ones I've loved;
few are the ones I miss.
There's only one  I'm thinkin' of,
and I left her up north in the mist.

The moonlight passes through
foggy mist in an avalanche;
creeping tendrils hold balance
with the warmer air below.

I wash, in circles, the light from my face
with great scooping armfuls
of blissfully animated space.

Arms held, rounded.
Not held, rather perched,
effortlessly bending this warmth

slowly gathering around my core.
A tingle of sensation;
a signal of joy --

a standing ovation from my senses,
congratulating me for paying attention.

I'm trying to understand
whether I miss you
or the way I feel
when you're near.

I've heard that Love is a flower
with pink petals pealed back,
odoriferous in its display.

But from the flower follows fruit
which once pulled will rot and sour
if not consumed before it fades.

I'd prefer that Love be sandalwood:
slow to grow with grounding aroma
that after death remains.

All those half-dreamed things
whirl about as tiny freckles
in the speckles of your mind.

Now my dear, I think it's time
we closed our eyes
and counted to eternity.