I take a hot long shower
At this odd hour
The sun is long set
As i get soaking wet
The water washes away the dirt
And with it all the hurt
My muscles relax and my brain sighs
In here i sever all ties
The constant sound of water against tiles
So many long miles

Seems some of blue saved,
Is for magical beings.
It's saved for their catching of time.

The hues so cuckholded,
And off-swept by needing,
In their want for describing this kind.

They nuzzle toward greenness,
And luxuriant darkness.
And attempt wrapping around her before flight.

But none known can hold her,
She's beyond such chameleon,
Beyond color,
Beyond label.

She is light.

If you could write your life in pencil,
How much simpler things would be.
When it is turned upside-down,
the slate is wiped clean!

But then again..
writing in pen could be fulfilling too.
If the situation comes around again
a quick glance back will tell you what to do.

But what if your desire
is for your mark to appear darker?
Then might I suggest, my friend,
a big.
       fat.
           black.
                    sharpie marker?


Alas, these utensils have one piece in common.
and that piece is this:
    The output seeps from that which is within.
as does the humans mouth reflect the heart's desire;
reveals the power;the soul; what lights our fire!

       understand it, can you? can I?
can we unlock our own secrets?
                     can we even try?

but maybe then, if we do, and have anything left.
                we can say our words right.
and extend a helping hand, but with a heart contrite.
to assist others in comprehending their plight.
and then.

in the end.

maybe our words will be put into pen.
or pencil

or
big.
    fat.
       black.
                sharpie marker.

"Tell me where all past years are...
or who cleft the Devil's foot.
Teach me to hear mermaid's singing..."
--Donne

...and all other lessons
came to pass,
those of night-fall,
fallen too fast.
Crickets screeched within the leaves
around the rocks,
rocking the weeds
...instructions lost in lonliness,
good-byes, good-byes,
hello to death,
not breath nor sounds
of love or life,
just lessons passing
throughout the night:
by memories of times long gone
to Hell and high Heaven
in the Mermad's song.

The Devil seems
to have had his share,
he ate our dreams,
left none to spare.
But, who can blame
the poor ol' man,
he's only doing
the best he can;
and what we don't,
(because we won't)
in language lost on sailing ships,
as we the cargo
are shipped off to crypts;
still wondering now
as the dank ground surrounds:
where went those years?*
whilst the dirge resounds.