cry baby, cry, though you are no crybaby
cry, baby cry, they must hear you in the end
those whose privilege it is to dispense favours
hope, baby hope, confetti might drift your way
whispered on by your delayed gratification

I saw him again today
someone with nothing to say
The open roadsides are his world
Standing under a leafless tree
In his shredded apparel
The sun beat down upon him
Yet he swore not and sweated not
Silent as a watchful sentinel
He scanned the surroundings
Eyes narrow slits like a hooded cobra
He knows no songs and tells no tales
Life is a closed book with his story inside
What juicy morsels might we glean therein?
What cries from broken hearts and what deep sighs might we hear?
I saw him again today
Standing at the traffic circle
Life went on without him
The dignity of his demeanor
Well beyond the reach of any diplomat
The winds and the breezes are his free bath
They carry the scales of his his scent to the ends of the earth
And so he remains free of convention
His own man to the last moan of broken branches
Today he looked up for the first time
And smiled a rusty smile in hues of yellow and brown
Aware there was  another in his universe
Then he spat out his disgust at my priorities
It clung to the dust in a mess of spittle
And I knew I had been exorcised from his world

Lucid dreaming is the doorway
        to the unconscious.
So dream.
Do not stay closed
        behind cement barricades
        blocking the moon
        from shining.
Live.
Each second is for you.
The tumbling of life
         does not promise
            anything.
In one breath
you can have
        a time table
        handed to you.
A distinct framework
        of how much
        longer you shall be.
Stay in illusion.
Keep in mind
that very little
is worthy of
being screamed about.
Politics
        and
people games
        are not
         the substance
        of existing.
Picture colourful images
         that flutter
          playfully
            across the
           mental horizon.
A traffic light
      will
       blink
red, yellow, green.
A noise
        will dominate
         the shading sky.
These mean nothing.
Moments of distraction
        soon
         gone away.
Focus on fantasy.
Allow yourself
the freedom to
         celebrate
        the essence
        of harmony.
When you die,
       it will be
         your dreams
         that are
          remembered.
Breathe.
It's just
      a bad day,
      not a bad life.

there was a wild fig tree here
no other  tree stood near-by
on cosy sunny days we lay
under its spreading branches
watching birds chirp and peck
now only this gnarled stump
speaks of the memories  made
how do we choose to trade
a haven for this barrenness
and everywhere it's the same
we seem to like this sad game
of erasing familiar old places
and things from fond memory

i've been to places deeper than the deepest sea
much higher and bluer than the bluest open sky
and perceived deeper than the profoundest seer
that all things lead to a destination somewhere
thus my mind saw and true thus my heart spoke