Fountain of youth runs in his veins,
The man who lives in Sycamore Keep.
His circadian clock had come to a halt,
Rather than rejoice, he sullenly weeps.
You would think that immortality is
The pinnacle of human existence,
All the time in the world and not a
Single malady to be of any resistance.
Yet there he sulks, the ageless man,
Cauterized by the turn of each century,
As loved ones breathe their last and
Become a parcel of his fractured memory.
But that is just the shell of his woes,
For even with all knowledge amassed,
He’s utterly aghast with the state of the
World unwilling to learn from the past.
Every crook and cranny explored,
Every experience well savored,
Now monotony for millennia to come,
His longing to live has ebbed and wavered.  
I was told by the man of Sycamore Keep
That immortality is a curse so alluring.
Indeed, a hundred cultivated years is
Much better than hollow eons securing.
But sir, think of all the riches you’ve accrued
And mastery of all science and philosophies.
Who wouldn’t want to have the time to mark
The world and purge it from all its atrocities.
Say no more, interrupted the ageless man,
I applaud your idealism and optimistic delusion,
But you’re missing one essential element --
Even as immortals, we’d still be only human.
And to be human, is to be fallible. Let’s just say
That immortal fallibility will engender no good.
It'd be best to truncate our lifespan for the
Sake of our survival, yes truncate we should.  
And that’s all I heard from the man of Sycamore Keep,
Who went on his way to his millennial weep.

Dusk of the old.
Dawn of the new.
Resolutions like
Ice sculptures
Chiseled by
Noble dreams.
Some melt under
The trying heat of
The sun.
Others thrive and
Grow under
Cold, calculated
Dedication.
Winter
Spring
Summer
Autumn
Set the tone.
Yet you are
The composer
Of the New Year

As the crowd engulfed me, I couldn’t help but
Scrutinize each person who brushed my side.
Each face unique which tells a distinct story.
Each story with its own plot, climaxes, and resolutions.
Each soul harboring its own worries and ambitions.
I’m overwhelmed by the vastness of the ocean I’m in,
A single fish among multitudes of all shapes and vibrant colors.
My story is merely a page among billions that comprise
The Story of Humanity.
A collection of individual histories that has propelled,
In one way or another, our species.
Every tear, drop of sweat, and ounce of effort
Has fueled the fire that blazes within us.
The Story of Humanity--
Bound by threads of fate,
Inked with blood of the fallen,
Soaked with ardent passions and desires,
Authored by love.

There’s a saying that ignorance is bliss,
Yet philosophers tell us otherwise:
Beyond our consciousness there exists
An absolute truth no one can deny.

The wise insist that we live in caves,
Our reality a projection of shadows
And that nothing but the truth can save
Us from becoming a herd of cattle.

Thus, we allow the enlightened to reign
So that we may be led to a path of light.
No doubt their judgement can tame
Our oh-so inferior state of mind.

Sheep we’ve become to another pastor,
Each preaching their own perceived truths,
When we should be our own masters,
Refusing to be rendered mute.

Let’s embark on our own life-long voyage,
A thrilling quest to find ourselves.
To conform is to accept *******.
To dream is to rebel.

Organic present
Grows with the mother’s soft hum
To brighten her world

Seldom am I struck with terror, as the
Day I sojourned at the Village of Care.
Welcome, they said, we are defenders
Of truth. Here all evil must beware.
You look famished. Come join us  
For our monthly community feast,
A time of fellowship and celebration,
A time for a blessing from the High Priest.
I took my seat at one of their long tables
And was instructed to bow my head
As the High Priest blessed the food
And to my horror slit his wrist and bled  
On a silver cup passed for everyone to sip.
I refused of course when the cup came to me.
Excuse me sir, but this is a hallowed tradition,
To descent is an offense of high degree.
Now, now said the village chief, he is our guest.
Slaves, send out the newborn brain, let us eat!
I winced when I saw the platters of gray mush
Brought in by branded men, scarred and beat.
I turned to the woman beside me and asked how
Are there still slaves and absurd rituals like these.
She pretended to ignore me and looked the other
Way, but her eyes screamed… just obey… please.
The High Priest heard me and sternly declared,
Women are forbidden to speak among us men.
All that you see is in the Book of Care.
Doctrine from the most High is law, my friend.
With that the villagers ravaged on newborn brain,
Desperately consuming what they lack.
I took a bite of the gray mush and swallowed,
Yet my stomach revolted and sent the mush back.
Regurgitated brain plopped on my plate,
Heads turned and silence with full force invaded.
What sacrilege is this? exclaimed the High Priest,
It seems that this man’s soul is rot and degraded.
Utter disgust plastered on everyone’s faces.
Some men stood up and took hold of my body.
They marched to the village gates and hurled
Me out and spat on me for being ungodly.
And to this day the thought I cannot bear
That there exists the horror that is the Village of Care.

The lone white rose lies on the cobbled road,
Tossed aside by unrequited love.
It once stood proud in the field basking in the sun,
Certain it was born to charm and dazzle.
You’re magnificent they said…
A special rose you are, crafted by divine hands.
Its enchanting beauty was a sight to behold,
Even kings waged wars to claim it.
Unbeknownst its grim destiny
To be trampled by its admirers
As they gather around to exalt the new vogue,
The red rose alive with passion
Breeding forbidden thoughts and fantasies.
You’re magnificent they said…
Now you’re forgotten.