Two birds cry
for what once was.
The innocent lamb decomposes
for she once were
Tossing joy with a painted face
humming without distress
to the two birds who tended her
all for naught.

The two birds had watched her succession
turning away from her inevitable passing
Moments wasted now abandoned
Replacing blissful memories
with a duet of Piano Sonata
sung by the two birds
as they attempt to mend the lamb with harmony.

Now only one bird cries
for the other must sing
for what once was.

The splendid southern sun lights the land
     breeding the greenest grass
     exploding the fairest flowers
     reflecting the widest seas
     feeding the richest soil
     and the kindest people
The vast open ocean soaks the skin
The soft white sand scalds the feet
The breezy air is humid
     saturated with ecstasy
     but damp with opportunity

But as I venture north
     films of simple nostalgia conceal these memories
     escapes to the southern sun now intermittent.

Bliss is overcome with solitude.
Reality refracts the northern lamps
     replacing the herald of each new day with a sobering awakening.

Every day passes slowly
     as the factory of life once again begins
     as the iron cogs of monotony turn
     in their recurrent spin.
The last bursts of escape are torn
     ripped between the brutish artisans of monotony
          like scraps thrown to the dogs
          a loaf dropped amongst slaves.

This is the limit of our blessed lives
     Endless toil and fleeting happiness.
If not, show me more
     a rescue from these binding shackles.
But if so, may I dream
     of the southern sun?

Roads ahead concealed by night
Though the cyclic sun shines bright.
I had once thought I was lost
As my skin collected frost.
Ne'er was warmth to hold my bones
Naked, as my body moaned
'Til by chance a glimpse of light
fed my hope, my will and sight.

A lantern sits upon the ground
without a warning nor a sound.
I lift it up in disbelief
breathing out the warm relief.
With this light and on my own
I have found a new way home.

What kind of a man am I
That I am a mystery to myself?
That I listen to every voice
          of what I can
          of what I should
          but never what I want.

What kind of a man am I
That I thrive on interlacing kinship
          but I myself am a knotted wreck?
That I agree the multitudes surrounding,
          and lie to the faces I most long to see?

What kind of a man am I
That I cannot win a simple game of chess
          between what my heart feels
          and what my mind knows
Instead of conquering my board
          upon which a winner is never announced
          and peace will never be reached.

What kind of a man am I
That I have not been honest with the person
          because I do not know the self.
I alone must make the choice
What kind of a man am I
If I cannot decide?

I wish I could show you true beauty
to put a frame to what eyes behold.
I wish I could trace your outline
          touch your details
                    brush your shadows
Cutting stone to your remarkable mold.

I wish I could stop time with a pencil
to frame unintentional glory
to capture you, modest
          tranquil
                    serene
Making seconds outlast eternity.

I wish I could capture these moments
these pauses so precious to me
Instants of awe and breathless watching
painting to memory what I perceive.

So brief are these hallowed moments
and so erratically intermittent
that I find myself hoping
          lingering
                    longing
Forgetting­ the time in between them.

I wish I had the faculty
to contain your gilded beauty.
Instead, I watch, and cherish these moments,
For in them
          I love you
                    and you only.

Dawn breaks, and with it
yawns wake the dreary
bodies of those who
accept the foggy boon of
Sunshine.
Through dusty windows
          or glossy eyes
Desire envelops reality until
Realization drops
in the mind as a clear
glass of water
slowly spills empty.
Worry moans as
Coherence opens
its eyes to scold
the brilliant invader.
Thought takes hold
and dreams are discarded.
Who sighs?
Lifting his head, asking the light
          Who am I?

The intricate
anatomy of the
human body, with
its ups and downs
its ins and outs
its curves.
The beautiful
curves that draw
a certain feeling of
longing that none
can easily forget
Slow, my
eyes trace
her sentient
form down
down
to
her
edge.