A blue sky above us is watching.
We're stopping
We stare at the night
Snow falls like a memory of some distant place
Some distant time when you were wholly, completely mine
Sunsets remember our laughter and grins
Underneath their colors, alongside our sins
Chase me down the path
a photograph
Curious beginning days

Find me,
Not in your world, But in
mine.
In this world,
This solid piece of subconscious,
Time slows down and lets me breathe.
I am in the womb again, secure in the motherly forces around me.
Break through. I dare you to even try
To **** me inside
Just like you did so many times before.
I am untouchable. Take me as I am.

Today, I stayed in a cold, dark room.
From inside these walls, not a soul can hear me.
The light won’t come on anymore;
Come to think of it, was there ever any light here?
No. There can’t be.
Why would there be? There is nothing to see.
Just me. Sitting here.
In silence.

You hide behind crystal doors and glass walls,
Hoping to catch a glimpse of what you have only read in storybooks:
Perfection, doll-like and still.
Two lovers, in an embrace of pure harmony.
A young girl, her life ahead and the will to live and grow.
Only happiness and promise of days to come.
Then, there is a crack in the glass.
No more charades. This is real life.
Look to your left and see the lovers battle.
At your right, watch the girl die, slowly.
Straight ahead are the noose and blade, waiting for flesh and life to rip and take.
You walk toward the beckoning Reaper, only to be stopped
At the glass.
Look
One more time.
Your life is before you.

I have to wonder why
You call your work “Untitled”.
Is it just that forgettable, or do you simply not care?
Maybe you aren’t as creative
As your works would make us think.
Perhaps you are the type to leave labels off,
Hoping your readers will fill in the gaps.
Whatever it is, I’m sure you have your reasons.
This question will keep me guessing for a while.
If I can’t come up with a definitive answer, I’ll leave my musings
Untitled.

I
Am.
I have no need to be
Enveloped in hypocrisy,
Or write a novel, climb a tree,
Or contemplate a bumblebee.
There is no benefit for me
To finding the square root of 3,
Or calculating the number phi
To digit three-hundred-thirty-three.
I only feel the need to be
The me that I was meant to be.
I’ll find a way to just be free,
And settle down and simply
Be.

I ride the wings of memory,
Back to the days when there was much to see
There was no hurt, no sting of bees,
Back in the days of memory.

I know the days of memory.
I’ve seen the butterflies float in the breeze
In the days of rest and the days of ease;
These are the days of my memory.

Do you know the days of memory,
Back before innocence was lost in the trees?
The worst thing we knew was the skinning of knees,
Back in the days of memory.

I know that I’ll never be able to leave
And rest in the arms of summer's relief,
But the best thing to do is get caught in the breeze,
And ride on the wings of memory.