And I'm alone in the ruins of the jungle.
The probing grasp of vining plants
twists questions out of dirt
and threads together disparate trees
whose trunks are full of centuries.
The ancient pyramids herald the sky
as darkened clouds return.
I do not fear the coming rain.

The rainfall used to be consoling,
like I'd hear the rhythm of your voice,
the cadence of your metered step,
inside the pit-pat play around my head.
Now there's only atonal dissonance
although I've seen the muses dance
to the static between my ears,
and I've seen the nymphs run wild
through forgotten foliage of time.

I don't know where else to look, love.
I think I've finally lost your track.

When day or night collide with frantic circumstance,
I'm left to pick the pieces up of sacrificed romance.
Could it be that I'm the unlucky one with nowhere left to stay?
Though I'm not pining for the moments that I passed along the way,
or the shades of broken people that are too afraid to heal.
They've left their hope behind, dressed in threads unreal.
Their heavy hallowed hearts are covered and still too far behind
and burdens burn their words when they lie and say they're fine.
Still, beauty spins from every fragment ruptured from their skin
as eyes and teeth twist together in a whirlwind of a grin.
I'm trying to be a full person, from my hair down to my feet
and stare down every obstacle while beaming from my seat.
For fortune has no favor, and I have no power to make it sway.
There's nothing you can do for me but close your eyes and pray.

Keep out of the garden, son.
That's not the place to play.
You have fields as far as
sunny hillsides on a summer's day
with waves of wild wind
whimlessly rolling in the hay.

Keep out of the garden, son.
That's not the place to sleep.
You have quiet afternoons
to rest with lazy sheep
and build a dream of  crowning castles
that your mind will let you keep.

Keep out of the garden, son.
That's not your place today.

I can feel your gaze upon me,
though we're space and time apart.
Maybe you thought in whispered words      
of tales unraveled in the dark.
Perhaps you looked through pictures,
still-life captures of a face
frozen in the moments
written down on halted days.
I can feel your gaze upon me,
and I wish it would never stop.
For when you look upon me,
it fills my vessel to the top
and the poetry comes flowing out
like I've been a poet all my life
while the world could sing and dance
a play penned in strokes of light.
Every moment is perfection,
and I'll take it all as such.
If your eyes are full of longing
when I feel your gaze upon me,
know that I miss you just as much.

Your image keeps a silent vigil
in the hallways of my mind,
reminding me of simple beauty
that wanders 'round in time
on tip-toed feet beyond the brush,
on weightless wings without a rush,
tucked away behind a thought
for when we're old enough to know
everything that we've been taught.

There's a sacred fire burning on the candle top.
I'm icy staring daggers trying to get it hot.
Read between the lines, let the mask drop.
'Cause in the end you only get what you got,

my friend.

When you came my way it stopped my heart.
When you went and left it tore me apart.
Wherever you go, I wish you the best
and know you look good in that summer dress,

my friend.

I'd like to share what I've seen with you.
I'm living in the land where dreams come true.
We could live a life of ease if you'd agree,
but why'd you have to go be so far from me,

my friend?

I'm feeling alone when we're not together.
So, I made myself a wing out of tar and feather.
I'll fly to the land of the ice and snow
and what I do there only I will know,

my friend.

For the years still ahead, aching to achieve,
can you proceed enmirthed and jolly
as you gracefully make your leave?
Or will pangs of old uncertainty
heave waves of manic sighs
while depressive undertows
keep your fears always alive?
The mirror may scream obscenity
or whisper doubt into your cheer
with gloomy cover cast to dull
the ways you hold yourself as dear,
but don't let the voice you hear
be an empty echo of the words
that others crafted to appear
as something more believable
than a charlatan on the pier.