what does it feel like to be held
not by another body
not by a set of limbs, a chest, a chin
but
by another soul

what does it feel like
to see truth in another pair of eyes
instead of hidden intentions
instead of absence

what does it feel like
to hear a familiar heartbeat
resounding next to your own
reaching through skin
through bone
two rhythms
indistinguishable

what does it feel like
to write poems about
a love that exists

Lies exposed
Truth unveiled
A year of Clarity...
Clarity is what we needed
To survive...
To grow
To change

My vision is clear

At the tunnel’s end,
I see the snow country.
Heavy bough bends
Then breaks abruptly.

January’s Sakura,
Stands in the court yard.
Sweet scent drifting,
To Honden’s guard.

Fourteen is Izu’s dancer.
Singing in Shinto’s garden.
Leaving a heart without answer,
For she askes of beauties olden.

Awake to snow’s calling
I hear the petals falling
The flower at midnight
Yet asleep

Another mark.
Another inch of skin covered.
Lines of words in languages from ages past.
Self expression to fill the silence.
Skin to speak when words fail.
Black artistry turned orange with time.
Orange is brown and all fades to be remade.
To remake and recreate is to preserve with intention.
Bleeding henna breeds creation.
Inspires chaos.
Forces constant renewal.
A virtuousity that gives life to this mind's insanity.

To think in narrative, is a living fairytale.
Not of those read as a child.
But of extinction and squalor.
The raw ache of a love nearly told.
The wreckage of damaged goods.
Lost minds a casualty of defective desire.
Shredded particles of tenderness withheld.
A gleaming crypt in the sunshine, while life posesses the shadows.
Interminable woe in an aura of bloodshed.
Rare is the "happily every after."
A dismal epilogue the usual reiteration.
Slivers of a daydream shines through the blighted dusk.
But the narrative insists on the fairytale.

My father said,
My dear son I love you very much.

I wept,
surprised by his affection
in the midst of my daily afflictions.
This outpouring
overflowed into my heart
and spilled out with tears.

How small I am in my eyes.
May I see me as tall as you do.
My underestimation
keeps me from the gestation
of the universe within me
aching to explode.

Early morning when I get up
I am in a fight with the dark forces
that inhabit my bones
and haunt my mind.

And I have a choice:
heaven and life or the devil and death.