My senses wonder how to find peace
among company not familiar
with the lightest touch.  
Even though I have written down
everything of which I dream.  
My words are not heralded
by the new age the same
because a pebble
means more to them
than a beautiful sunset's beams.

The youngest
seem to rise inside the walls
with no names,
disguised as sparkling diamonds
known as hope.  
I must beware of their winds
as they can overwhelm
the very air I cradle and for which I fight.  
Or, I may find my Heaven
has become absent
and that I have given up everything
I know to be right.

I could look straight through the glass
and hear the strangest voices ever
from my reality.  
And, I would want to know
what lies at the bottom,  
posing as flowers for my hair.
Still, I find there are wrinkles in my climate
painted on the panes of life,
numbed by “I don't care”.

If I tried to escape or perhaps fight
for what I believe,
would I be considered shallow?  
Could I still feel   the appeal of peace
or would I want to cover my heart in sleep?  
So, I watch the schemes
of those not familiar with the lightest touch
then watch them drink the wine
of what they reap.

he sat on his porch
with a bottle of cheap gin
there was nothing to do,
but forget the little of him that was left

forty-six years
and still nothing made sense.
no one teaches a man (about real *******)
about humanity, its hypocrisies
and ego and greed.
death and the Devil.

in fact,
no one really teaches a man anything at all
check book balancing, dinner table manners,
how to properly shake a hand.
none of it's any use.

he took a pull of the gin
and looked up as it started to rain.
"I know you are there."


                            a moment passed.


the thunder replied.

The first thing that disappeared
was your lips.
Not your voice;
That I still hear loud and clear.
I can’t seem to remember what your lips look like.
But I remember how they taste.

Next it was your nose;
it melted right off your face.
Sliding down your cheek and now
your mouthless lower half,
It fell to the ground below.

The image of your eyes is burned into my mind.
I fell into them the moment we first met,
sunk into the blue flecked with grey
submerged in a stormy sea.
I have yet to come up for air.

Your rosy cheeks have faded
over the years.
Now they just look like everyone else’s.

I hope this means that to me
You’re not as distinct as you used to be.
But I sometimes wonder if it’s far worse;
if it’s that everyone else
is now more like you.