November comes
with the wild geese
in their V like memories
of an arrow flying
too close to the sun
and their feathers shining
as their wings beat as one
drum in the distance
signaling that winter
is coming, and the cold
days will keep us inside
warmed by the fires we crave
deep in our caves painting
and dreaming away.

so long ago,, perhaps before
I was thought of
on the shoulder of a mountain
i was an old cedar
then, and lived centuries
just watching
the world turn
and the mountain and me knew
what was important
was being
more than I know
in this life
in the shadow
of then
now.

is there a condition
where one can overdose on empathy
on caring
until tears become a malady

Until others hearts
are nearly more important
than ours
and we **** up our life

is that or
could it be an addiction
to seek maybe sad things
and others pain

subconsciously
trying to alleviate
our own?

I am wondering
if I need an intervention.

go glory
worm like
growth
until you
outshine the morning

I count
your petals
and
await that
day we our splendor

becomes
the thing
how
unrequited
we are in waiting

for morn-
ing  un-
til
our beauty
comes full bloom

from the
dirt keen
proud
standing tall
in the morning.

It is four in the morning.
Bourbon is beautiful
In the right glass.

No matter how many
Times you leave it is
Never enough.

Always one more to run from.

There are none left to go to.

It is four in the morning.
The past has gone.

I am writing this
Right now.

I am writing this from
The void of current life.

This too shall pass.

This art. And it can fail.

Night, I call you
the sanctuary of the lost
and the no-good,
like the hawk down
in my pillow case
full of forgotten dreams
that old hound time
tears apart like bones
tossed under the table,
so I pull on my new boots
and walk in the dark
with no place to go
but the road that leads
to the ferry by the river,
because unlike lost friends
and dead family, the cold
water will always take me in.