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.

As I gaze upon the sea
I thought of only you and me.
The love that could have drowned an anthem
a love so deep we could not fathom.

I recall these days of old
when dreams were bright and waters cold
when silent breeze with fingers icy
would brush your hair ever so slightly.

Ceaseless waves would pound the shore
when once we were, but nevermore.

At that place where land met sea
with water lapping at our feet
even now that you're away
I pace the shore to waste the day.

By the beach we always ran
scarring footprints in the sand
the memories ingrained in time
now washed away amidst the brine.

I choke down water with ever breath.
Since you have gone, there's nothing left.

Undisturbed these blankets new
undisturbed conceal the few.
Those who wander worn and weary
speak of Spring's antiquity.
Winter's callous tears will bring
no more odes for choirs to sing.
Restless nights breed endless dreams
undisturbed to cease the streams.

But glory still remains amid
wide expanses now deemed placid.
I long to feel your touch again
but I will wait until you rien.
The mornings shine with crystals bright
whilst Twilight's solitude holds tight.

Across dry plains the tumbleweed dances
          off the dusty floor
As a renounced ballerina reminisces
          in her old studio
          On the corner of the street
                    towards the west
                              following the sun
                                        where all dreams go
And where the wind carries the tumbleweed.

The air rustles in the drift
          as she sighs
Breathing in the dusty smell
          of the grass
          Of the room
                    where she once performed
                              for her beloved
                                        now carried away
                                                  by the same wind
                                                  that carries tumbleweeds
                                                  and­ caused dust to dance.

A tear soaks the wooden floor
          a small relief from the barren span
                    for the lonely ballerina
                              who is forever carried
                              along the scalding land.
Lost.
          Like words unsaid
                    on lips untouched
                              cracked by the sun
                                        where all dreams go
And where the wind carries the tumbleweed.

Pounding against cages strong
Jumping soon, but not for long.
Until the wind begins to rush
          Throughout the blood.
          Throughout the brush.

Pausing only quickens time
Reverberating with Life's crime
Stolen, asking, "Will you come
          With mournful strings
          And ceaseless drum?"

Rhythmic melody will call
All the demons to Death's thrall
Exhausted heart strain faster still
          They beat no more
          No more they will.

Reassuring rhythm please
Show me gates as bright as these
Hasten Life's abandonment
          Of beats now soft.
          Beats still present.

Soft submission in Death's gate
Slowly ends the rhythmic rate.
Resonating heart sounds will
          Be still.

Amazing Mike was full of gifts
          that he would share all day.
But Average Joe would stay at home
          wasting himself away.

Amazing Mike and Average Joe
          were always best of friends.
But Joe was always searching for
          the means to an end.

One day came when Average Joe
          sick of life's displeasure
Took a razor from his drawer
          and slit his wrists with ferver.

Joe had asked "What am I?
          A break of unseen monster?
Or am I some strain of cancer?"
          He never got his answer.

Joe didn't wait for death of age
          counting his days as "few."
Average Joe, now sick with sleep
          and so he bid "adieu."

"Adieu to you Amazing Mike
          whose fortune ne'er rots.
Enjoy your life, the gifts for granted
          for life loved me not."

Sometimes I wonder
     If I stand still,
          will the snow bury me?
                  the roots hold me?
                  the lightning strike me?
     can you move me
     If I stand still,
          will my heart stop?
                  my bones set?
                  my eyes shut?
     I can watch the world
     If I stand still,
          I can breathe easy
                   think clearly
                   move freely
     If I stand still,
Will you notice me?

Can you hear me?

The peaceful river does not sleep
but carves a road that runs so deep.
The silent waters trickle down
and calming lullabies do sound.

The peaceful river does not cry
though soaked with tears and never dry.
A lonely journey leads it home
to oceans wide with drowning tones.

The peaceful river does not anger
no wrath contaminates the martyr.
Temptation does not flow to sea
does not hold the river free.

Instead the river feeds the soul
weaving life where're it flow
breeding hopes for future fruit
and wiping clean the ash and soot.

Humble savior of unclean soil
without reward despite its toil.
A ceaseless flow of blessedness
The peaceful river of forgiveness.

I cannot sleep.
The bellowing thunder awakens me
Only the brief pauses between its roars
     allow me to close my eyes.

I cannot sleep.
So I open a door and walk
The first sure decision I have made
     amidst this lonely torrent.

The air is thick
with cold blankets of rain
that seem to punish the dry soil
     as it begs for a drink.

The path is dark
for the sun has not risen
blessing the world with a new day
    and beckoning the lost with hope.

My unclean body
is soaked by the storm
cleansed of imperfections and dreams
     and promises that cannot come true.

The rain lessens
but I do not wish it to.
I stiffly continue forward,
     pleading the rain to punish me as well.

Leaves float in pools
like tadpoles locked in a nursery
waiting to grow legs and escape
     the safe prison they were born into.

Light flashes
bringing me back to my footsteps
as I solemnly slave through
     the chilling tribulation of the storm.

My mind is shallow
my thoughts uncertain and eyes cloudy
with these drops that run down
     my cheek to the ground.

I do not know where I am going
nor why
and I do not ask.
But if I continue in the dark
maybe I will find my way
Home.

Love is stupid
And I am blind
But you are kind
Of scary
The way you stare at me
With eyes as soft
As crimson cherries.

Love is cruel
And I am young
When old songs sung
Anew
My dear you lick your lips
With tasty venom
And pure seduction.

Love is hurtful
But I am curious
Of you, my mistress,
Lovely
Lady of my dreams
Lay me down
So I may sleep.