I want to talk of war
   Of the horror
         Of every stain in the mirror
               Stains of ichor, blood and tar

I want to talk of pain
   Of the manner
         Its infusion makes me cower
              This time, next time, and then again

I want to talk of fear
   Of ice and gale
         Of hope and rapture - how they fail
                                As I do so, see how I sneer

As your eyes widen
As your ears shut
As you mouth opens

                                     To retort:
                                     All the beauty in the world
                                     Is all around to be taken
                                     Life too short!
                                     Wake up, and then
                                     witness marvels of all sorts!

I do not want
  to speak of your marvels
                  you are the one who buried them

And as you flaunt
         beauty as your anthem
                      You are still holding the shovel

I remember you well
at the halfway hotel
dusty corduroy ragged
shambling shoes smiling
toothless and untethered.

You, shop door keeper
sidewalk sleeper
a torrent of tall tales
and misery sweet
You, invisible to those
who see beauty 
in possessions alone
while all you possess
hangs in blue plastic noose
from your weathered hand.

Me, the bearer of bread
hot soup for the soul
and soft blanket warmth.
We settle together
to watch the world wane
You tell me your story
hushed tones as sun sets
homeowner to street roamer
family man to castaway
as an eye blinked
and winter frosts left their bloom.

We shared our love of Cohen
as the stars forged the sky
you sang a little
with tobacco rough lungs
the sweetest sound
mixed with bitter tears
picking through all that remains
in the ashes of your life.

You thanked me for kindness
grateful for a chance at visibility
your gratitude reciprocated
by the impression left upon my heart
your face forever summoned
by Leonards finest song
I remember you well
at the halfway hotel...

There was in a country of old
A mighty giant, strong and bold
His feet, bigger than two big dogs
His fingers strong like wooden logs

High up in the mountain, I'm told
Away from the streets and the crowd
In his dark cave he dwelt alone
Feared by all, and fearing none

People trembled at his mere sight
Children, women and men alike
What a big arm, what a great roar!
And what a pride in his furor!

So you must say, he was happy
What is the point of my story?
I shall thus tell you a secret
The tall, tall fellow never slept

He would sometime give it a try
And although he'd never known why
His eyes shut in the depth of night
He'd give it up, not feeling right

But then one day, an ant, curious
Seeing him angry and bilious
Wondered " Golly, what's up in here?"
And climbed all the way to his ear

Feeling an itch, the giant twitched
And threatened "Out! You little witch!"
But the ant crept deeper inside
Whispering "Let's see what you hide"

"Do not look there, minuscule you!
It's not for ants to look into!"
Replied he in an angry slur
But she begged him "Please hear my word"

"For what I see, under your bulk
The very thing that makes you sulk
Depriving you of your slumbers
Is that you frighten great number

Truth to be told, your heart is sweet
But you're hiding in your retreat
For if you scare off more than few
You fear them more than they fear you!"

There was in a country of old
A mighty giant, strong and bold
His feet, bigger than two big dogs
His fingers strong like wooden logs

You will perhaps think it's fancy
'Cause his best friend is an ant, see.
And all the people from the town
Come to visit him in his home

But not at night, of after meals
They wouldn't dare disturb the dreams
Of a mighty giant's mighty sleep!

There are some evenings…

You just happen to tilt you head back and dusk is already right in front of your face.

Sometimes it’s just you, sometimes, some dude taps on your shoulder and while pointing straight upward he goes “Hey…look at that!”

And of course you’re gonna look, ‘cause what’s to see is just not real.

The sun is suddenly more than a big ball of flaming gas, the clouds more than some vapor. This red hot blood spread across the sky seems to come right from your veins.

You gaze into this huge scenery and you realize that it’s taking everything away. No more endless commute to your office, no more ******* for your missing pencil sharpener, no more reports, boss, todesangst… ****… for what it’s worth girls don’t even have ***** anymore.
Right that moment, it’s all burning along with the clouds and slowly sinking.

Then you just have enough time to blink twice and it’s dark already. Daddy Sun is gone to his other family.

You’re still there though, staring at nothing, feeling your existential mess creep back up your spine, cramped between the pencil sharpener and some girl’s *****.

What are you supposed to do then?

You’ve just been the enlightened Zen monk from the movie for a full minute, and now papa’s gone home, you’re back to your old whiny self. **** it up.

How are you supposed to return to your everyday’s plasma screen craving and internet **** when you feel you’ve just been dumped by the Sky itself?

I mean… how are you supposed to survive a sunset?