A whistle,
blows off the steam
heated inside the kettle.
Warmth is luscious and comforting.
The sensation that will soon puncture between your lips.
It comes to a boil,
the whistle grows greater.
Higher.
Oh that one night.
The note reaches soprano,
and continues.
Water rises to a boil.
Anger.
Only a sound that can make your ears throb.
Grasping the handle,
you pull the *** from it's key source.
Oh how you yearn to do the same.
Something this bitter,
needs a sweetener.
The warmth will exit.
Won't it need someplace to go?
Honey,
your warmth is forever welcome,
if you find yourself becoming cold on the boil.

Perhaps,
I'd release the negativity
of you,
by writing.
Page by page.
But that would waste too many lines.
Too many chapters.
Tree by tree.
Our oxygen is precious,
and you already suffocated my heart.

Fall apart.
As ripped pages,
in the worn book
perched on your shelf.
Begging for mercy.
Pleading,
to be opened.
Unhinged,
the lies pour,
into a bottomless pit,
where mercy is belittled.
You laugh,
because He  
He will salvage you.
The laugh of a scream,
can depict the sanity.

Your sheep,
dear sir,
are follow a flock of knave beings.
Preachings split and unopended wound.
Red,
the whale swallows,
an apple possesses.
The wound is in your mind.
In your heart.
Do you worship a fairytale?

You,
dismantled me.
Piece by piece.
Through all my love.
And I now,
accept you're right,
to hold the anger.
Love is superior.
Love is almighty.
Love is the grip,
I wish I knew..
how to hold on tightly.

I struggle to feel,
a sufficient mindset.
In a sea
of radiant creatures,
I am the unfit.
I breathe oxygen,
while they,
are capable of inhaling water.

I push the boundary,
while they have already crossed.
I starve,
while they are able,
to feed.
They have,
given themselves a sense
of beauty,
because their brain
is of one with their mind.  

I am not one
to understand.
I fail,
while they have just arisen.
Beauty is in the mindset.
Beauty has blossomed to a number.
I am not that number.

The fog came in and cut the hard edges off Monday morning,
Which really didn't do much good because a cold rain
Fell through it and soaked down to my soul.

It is the kind of day when reality bends and
The big questions beg for answers,
Like where does the spark go when it leaves?

I mean we turn out the lights, but the beam travels
Endlessly, the fastest thing we know, to the end
Of what?

The universe?  Time? (Whatever time means compared to eternity)

So, the light in our eyes, where does it go when the power is cut?
Or am I supposed to accept, Dr. Hawking, the light we make
Rubbing two sticks together is superior to the light in us because we
Can't yet find the formula for sentience or measure
It's limits beyond what we can see?

Big questions, foggy, rainy Monday and I am alone
A week after the light went out in dad.

I expect he’s out past Jupiter by now, heading home.

He’s also right beside me, I can feel him, thank God.