If art is defined as the expression of something beautiful or extraordinary,
then you, my dear,
are a *masterpiece

My wine had spilled across the table
that day.
A cheap Chiante, the bottle rolled off
the table.
Causing a castatrophic scene on my
hard wood floor.
Cheap laminet, the glass lye on it's
side, on my glass table like a gun shot
victim.
Bleeding it's last ounce of sweet nectar
across it's ground.
I lit a smoke, leaving it on the middle
of the table.
Not in a ashtray and just rolling on the
only dry spot of my uneven table.
I took a black and white photo of the
spill.
Photo shopped it all night long and
proceeded to make a really cool picture.
I'm thinking of having it framed, for
you.
But then also know how much it would
be.
That's alot of dough for a cheap ***
spill of wine.
And perhaps way to much thought I
have, or way to much time.

Keeping your eyes closed
While your reflection is trying to see you.

Do you know where I left it?
Lost in total reckless,
perhaps abandon only to return to thought later.
A passing moment of clarity...
It's gone.
Maybe sitting on the very edge of my sanity.
I wonder...
If it ran away just to be free of me. Poison,
comes to mind as I inhale.
It can't avoid me much longer,
for I eventually will stumble upon it. Eyes closed..
light warms me yet I see in a blind view. Please,
tell me you found it before frustration causes the floor to collapse.

I miss you.
Like the desert longs for rain,
I like the dry    clay    ground am cracked.
Music holds different melodies,
the beauty of it    rings less    in my ears. My heart beats a different rhythm,
as if    missing a note.
I'm wondering   not yet    lost,
but found.
This is me        partly whole,    
saying   I     miss    you.

With a dream filled flask
In an absent set mind,
His thoughts were at a stand still
-of time.

His beard long, matted and Grey
His thoughts old, fading, distant,
And aged.

His home was wherever he roamed,
His flask of dreams, is all he owned.

His well worn shoes covered his feet,
His abused heart, covered his sleeve.

I seen his blackened smile everyday,
Good morning, I'd reply as I walked away.

The same park bench every morning he'd lay.
Letting the chirps awaken his stay.

His name I did not know,
His life's road I did not know,
His morning story,
Was a man with a heart of gold.

Out side beauty catches the eye.
While inner beauty,
Captures the soul.