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Listen to the drops of rain,
Embracing the warm soil.
Falling gently from heaven,
Around the mountains they coil.

Listen to the light,
Sung from the Sun's heart.
The melodies flowing everywhere,
Shining on God's art.

Listen to the trees whisper,
Answering life's questions.
Pleading to let live,
Praying to change your perceptions.

Listen to the time passing,
Healing all that has decayed.
Teaching you forgiveness,
Accepting all that was delayed.

Listen to him in the mirror,
Sobbing in greif and despair.
Tangled in hesitation,
Picking up pieces beyond repair.

Listen to the lost conscience,
Calling out and pleading.
Break the chains and rise up,
Save your soul that's bleeding.
Sitting by the window seat,
Holding a velvet guitar case.
His heart beats heavier with defeat,
And tears rain on his barren face.

He watches the road that's left behind,
And the smiles that make him cry.
The soulless bodies make him remind,
He made a choice of not saying goodbye.

Of all the things he saw in a dream,
The most he craved for love.
Then the clouds let out a gentle stream,
And drenched her photo in his glove.

Holding his broken red porcelain pieces,
The guitarist walks alone.
Over and over his heartache increases,
Over and over his hate has grown.
 Sep 2015 Dreams of Sepia
Kenshō
The man who tries to prove a point
Is unsure of how sharp it is.
A man who wars with blunt arms,
Is confident in his own strength.

The man who bears armor brave,
Falls heavy into his own grave.
The man who comes naked
Is sure he will return unscathed.

But, not every warrior is the same;
And no war can be fought
In the shadow of divine aim.
who do you blame?
Past the deep Gotham of my eyes --
     The authority of my headache reads
     The graffiti of the prophets -- scribbled
     On the back walls of the train-station:
          
           Commute, work, commute, eat,
           Commute, work, commute, sleep;
           Work  Buy  Die
           And Say AYE-AYE, Sir.

     How many Dear Mr. Heartbreak letters
     Have been etched here -- (I cannot say how many) --
     Deep in the Gotham of my eyes --
     Cold as a city empty of alleys --

     Maybe I'll please the philistines,
     With much talk of good money. I'll study
     Their scriptures about the nonsense of art.
     At last I'll make good --

     I'll finally make them happy.
     I'll try a new part in my hair.
     Maybe I'll put down this pen; stop these letters.
     From now on, I'll express myself in tears.
In the brief day, or rather, the night
called Life,
dream how easily a speck may be distanced from itself;
and how hard also it is
to remove that same grain
from your proud eye.
Look at the lightning over the green corn
and learn the virile meaning of our lack of power
under the traveling stars.
Turn on the lights silver-electric
to see in what dark rooms you have dwelt,
yet tried to be happy.
Open and close your eyes
and feel the weird proximity of doll-like death.
Talk to the moth
and trot the eternal wheel of boredom,
tolerated by a life that cannot wait
to immolate itself on a fuel lighter
for love of the gamble.
Come near the heartbeat of an animal
and touch your own heart
to take the pulse of the planets
and experience the split-second hypocrisy of love.
Unwrinkle your bones with deep calm
and purest feeling, unfurling your reddish hair,
and you will bare your heart in all your poems.
Pity the mania of poetry
and the helplessness of its wisdom
to hope or heal or even to dare
to come down from its own shiny cross.
In spite of all,
extinguish any light at its source
and you will work in vain
to prevent its survival
in some remembering soul.
And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of
Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.
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