across my face.

I saw spring coming
in the meadow
where the wildflowers
whisper to the wind.

found freedom on a snowcapped mountain top,

smiled to the child offering violets
cradled in her tiny hands

and when she smiles to me

her joy ripples like sunlight
across the sea of love.

the curtain is lifted.

the soul becomes visible

(always in the wild places
in my heart.)

Remembering
you have a home, when you truly feel
you're all alone, is the hardest one to keep -
it slips away
like a father's voice, a mother's face,
a train ticket blowing away
you chase with haste.

Have trust, have faith, they all say,
those who have never had to keep pace
with the malicious apathetic whims of the wind,
as it sweeps away every dream within -

Alone, you run, missing every turn
the gps has gone out and the maps have been burned
all alone, you seem to be, rushing past deserts, empty of trees
and somehow every step you take
leads you along the path He made.

I’ve been walking this path longer than I meant to.
The trees along the side don’t talk anymore, and neither do the birds sing,
and the hills blur together as one
far and wide
like excuses in someone else’s mouth.

Funny how distance never explains itself.
You look back and it seems like forever or minute,
and the sharp things start to disappear:
the cliffs, the fear, the hopes,
even that voice you loved now just slips between reality and illusion.

We think about that love sometimes.
“That love”—you know the one.
Who first brought butterflies,
then left moths.
That was months ago,
or years,
or last week.
Depends who’s asking.
Just look how the bruises show,
and you wonder how you let them sink their fangs into you.

They left like a season that decided to skip town,
a breeze blown stronger than the wind
when it was convenient.
No letter,
no text message,
just one day, out of the blue,
they decide today was the day
my name didn’t mean warmth anymore,
and the time shared was meaningless
left you climbing up the walls to escape the sinking feelings that you try to hide.

I think it was then
I started wandering a lonely road.
The road less traveled—or was it just the only one left?
That’s where I met a guy
pushing a shopping cart
held together by plastic ties and prayer.
He told me he stopped counting miles
once the ground stopped being polite.
He said the hard part
wasn’t the walking.
It was knowing
nobody waits at the end.

We shared a smoke
and didn’t say anything profound.
But I remember the silence in that moment.
I think that mattered more than the smoke to both of us.

Some days
my hands smell like metal and sweaty palms.
Other days
I forget what I used to want from life.
I write,
I sleep,
I try not to watch the news.
Sometimes,
I look at life like it owes me an apology.
But it doesn’t.
Not me.
Not you.
It is what it is.

There’s a joke in all this,
I think
how nothing stays,
but the wounds still pile up.
How sorrow doesn’t have a face,
but somehow still wears your hoodie
and that Anon mask,
and it doesn’t stop kicking your ***.

People say
it gets better.
Does it? Really!?
Are they sure?
Or is that just cold comfort?
And maybe it does.
But better isn’t always different.
Sometimes
it’s just quieter
the same ****,
just another day.

And you keep going.
Because you do.
Because you have to.
Because the road
doesn’t care what you’ve been through,
who you are,
or who you lost,
or what you think you know.
It only knows forward.

And so forward we must walk
until one day,
there’s no more path,
and the journey quietly ends.

It’s then you realize
paradise was always in your soul.
We’re all just lost
dragging bruises through the labyrinth.
But still
We keep on going anyway.

theres a folk lore story from many years ago
about a famous dog that every one would know
the dog he was from wales a folk lore tragedy
a tale they say is true that didnt have to be

it tells of a prince. named Llywelyn the Great
tells the story of his son in a tragic fate
went out on a hunt left his dog to guard is son
prince he went of to have some hunting fun

when the prince returned he saw blood on the hound
looked in  his sons cot was nowhere to be found
prince he drew his sword killed his faithful hound
there were yells and screams as he fell to the ground

then he heard a cry from a blooded blanket on the floor
the prince lifted up the blanket there a dead wolf saw
his son was still alive his dog saved a tragedy
he fought to save his son with all his bravery

now the dog his a legend Gelert his is name
alway to be remebered in the hall of fame

theres a memorial you can visit south of Beddgelert village
its in wales

The New York subway gathers longing:
Harbor of the human gnawing,
Death will sit on plastic seats.

The idle time can build a poet,
Wonder humming far below it
In strangers' eyes we seek relief.

I miss those days
when you loved me
Unconditionally
When you stood
against the world
made sure I was safe
Loved and protected

Now you’re busy
No longer have time for me
So foolish of me
to think that
Love carves a path
through schedules
Just because mine did

I wish to be cared for so gently
Like I pet my dogs face
Hold a flower scared it might break
An antique object frightened to shatter it
I wish to be loved
As if  i am a masterpiece myself
That you are terrified of ruining