Hope is the last thing ever lost" - Italian proverb

Hope.
And what if it is lost.
Call to it to come back.
It will come even in the face
of terminal blackness.
Walk into the ravaging dark.
Fall apart so that you may find,
Those long lost moments that made you shine.
The fireflies of the mind.
That flashing glow somehow soothes
things gone out of control.
Save one in a jar in your soul.
Hope.
The magic light that ignites internal growth.

Raindrops dangle from the gnarled tree's ripe berries.
Like suspended sparkling tears that revolt the fall.
As we falsely be merry.
Inevitably the teardrop will fall to ground.
Why did it cling so hard.
Below eyes of iris shards.
You might get an- oh be strong.
How dare you to peddle advice
Without ever standing in my shoe.
Tears hid inside veins, as words form lies.
A mother somewhere echoed- hide your teardrops.
Conceal your pain.
When someone asks how you are,
do they really care to know?
Pleasantries do not like mention of despair.
Once in a blue moon an angelic human creature may actually care.
To reenter the wound with you.

The water was a blue universe where the soul is fluid.
Lifetime far away from the closest human grid.
Aquamarine dream, shines a glacial sheen
of a mountainside secluded lake.
Engulfed in triangular summits with their bleached
termination dust flakes.
The peace was so still and so primitively profound.
There existed no need to make a single sound.
My every hurt was soothed with liquid blue bliss.
Morning would bring a hypnotic mist.
Moistening blades of grass that are April sun kissed.
Grateful to be alive to witness such a sight.
My soul floats the motionless blue with
sweet trembling tranquil delight.

A single junco hopping carefree;
pecking stray seed in the snow.
The bird fully embraces the world it knows.
It's tiny heart thumps in gratitude;
for the wondrous discovery of food.

There is a difference between nice and kind;
you will hopefully someday find.
Being nice, you are pleasant and agreeable;
only to make yourself shine
in another's judgemental eye.
If you are kind, you have a deeper level of compassion
for a person's needy cry.

Time sits in the golden dusk of the field,
gnawing away the days.  
Hungrily it consumes our lives,
the shaded moments that didn't count
or failures to strive.  
Extracting and devouring even the thickest
honey of happiness from the soul's hive.  
Break away memories from the edge of the day,
crumbs left behind make our bellies ache.  
For the non- memories, things we wish we had done.
Thinking there was a million more sun's.  
The echoes of all that was left unsaid, a lead burden,
if only a mind could be read.  
I must not waste a moment of time,
Live like tomorrow you will perish and die.  
In time, do not confide.
Just kindle you heart and it's wild blazing fire.  
Be alive in the moment, free your desire.

Time has been unforgiving
to my mortal wounds.
My soul lay exposed
beneath a bone white moon.
Contemplation at the day's end.
Is time a formidable opponent
or a faithful friend?
When will it be our time?
Will a ladder to eternity
be there to climb?
Who will read my final rhyme?
We waste our days,
in a grossly over thought maze.
You may cherish a memory
Were you even present or
did your attention flee?
We are told the now
is where happiness resides
The abysmal past
is our usual alibi.
In relentless pursuit
of the elusive why.
Be present before you erode
and die.

Stories nestled in my bones
are not silent storms.
My heart is haunted
by their primordial groans.
Yet so many scattered thoughts
go unknown.
Like the frantic way
autumn leaves are blown.
What decays becomes wisdom
for another day.
Skeletal stories now, the flesh of us
is gone.
Even though we loved from the core
of our jagged bones.
Human life seems just an agonized attempt
to be heard.

Stories nestled in my bones
are not silent storms.
My heart is haunted
by their primordial groans.
Yet so many scattered thoughts
go unknown.
Like the frantic way
autumn leaves are blown.
What decays becomes wisdom
for another day.
Skeletal stories now, the flesh of us
is gone.
Even though we loved from the core
of our jagged bones.
Human life seems just an agonized attempt
to be heard.

The jagged pieces congealed to a thick solid numbness.
My heart became a frozen iceberg to what you casually confess.
Bone white, splattered in moonlight, it now protrudes
in the motionless black onyx ocean of my soul.
Desperate to absorb the solace the glowing darkness eludes.
Yet alone, I shiver with the ice of your truths.

Who you want
may very well not want you.
Why is it we covet so, the shineless promises,
warning signs of the cold blatant truth.
A dull fact, you were never mine.
I chase the unrequited with my neurons of denial.

The delicate silence of the morning forest
was fractured by a rumbling groan.
Of the unknown.
The tall trees, the pine needle forest floor
seem to know.
The mortal fates that will inevitability grow.
I walked alone haunted by that guttural groan.
Why won't today let us meet tomorrow,
maybe a chance for the cease of sorrow?
The trees comfort and whisper there is a reason
we can't change yesterday,
Just rays of memories hung like leaves
upon the soul.
We can learn from the past,
clearly see the holes.
Still not enough to predict tomorrow's turn.
I accept the trees may know more than me
though on my mind the unknown burns.
Whatever is etched on our bones will be.
Forbidden to see.
The heart will still believe......

As I open my eyes, the tide of the soul
pulls back my dream, slithering into oblivion.
I struggle to remember from deep within.
Half faces, fractured voices and shadowed symbols.
Further back the tide pulls.
The theatre of slumber has a distant thunder.
Memory of the dream is just a blunder.
Morning's reality is chasing me down.
As my thoughts plunge into that inner ocean.
Sleep clutches her secret potion.
Until black night returns,
To once again seize my soul.

Familiar was the squawk of dawn's happy choir.    
A cheerfulness so potently dire.    
When daily suffering is inescapable    
Anguish does not discriminate or label.    
A man's belly, barren of bread, aches in pain.
An ache the same,
As the obsession to be desired by the vain.    
To the blacksmith of thought, we are the tool.    
The mastery of thought is the saving rule.

Night sky
The giant gown of night sky
felt like smooth billowing black satin.
With vast embroidered fields
of shimmering stars of passion.
Spend with me the nights irrational.
The straight paths are always diagonal.
Scars and stars, a dark and light decoupage.
The tiny moment can one day be large.
It's the glitter days we long to enlarge.
Rational is a mortal chain
On sanity's barge.

Struck by the gloss of the ebony plumage
of the raven in starlight.
His eyes an oily mystery
of the perpetual return of night.
Fascinated by his burrowing stare
at the gnarled knot in the tree.
That furnished a nest of naive robin's eggs.
Under inevitable seize.
Meaningful change has an approaching leg,
the wicked raven confides.
A need to explore the shadows
that dwell inside.
I've made companions of
the midnight hours.
In keeping with the natural order,
the pale blue eggs are greedily devoured.
To be who I am.
I left empowered.

Aching through eternity.
How can you feel so heavy
yet so empty?
Simultaneously.
Stone lead hearts
and soul black holes.
Trees ache for the riot
of supple leaves.
Aching wants
are not aching needs

I acutely ache for the return of me.

Empty deny's aching to be full.
My heavy thoughts dream
of veins of empty peace.
Nature's beauty aches to be.
Every single ache,
is a different want and a
different need.

There is a splendid devastation in your departure,  
knowing your return will be a heart exploding euphoria.  
The annihilated ache feels quite glorious  
Beneath the dominion of your desire,  
all inhibition perishes in my heart's brilliant fires.  
You crossed the throbbing threshold  
from my body into my soul's dream.  
A ****** of deep peace drugs my bloodstream.  
Your vow of lust is redeemed.

In the westward sky is a crow's clear caw.
A visceral proof of life.
That there joyously exists more than just our strife.  
It soared mystically deep into the baby blue
and fluffy white blissful unknown.  
In the north sky
gathers a small ****** of crows,
with their chaotic excitable moan.  
A folktale goes that the crows congregate
to hover and decide another crow's fate.
Place a scavenger of death in a vast cheerful sky.
You realize a great many days are void of a why  
They are just proof of life.  
So feel alive!