i like the idea of bathing in a sunset
on the hills of Park Hall, overlooking landscapes and cities

being so far away from civilization
that my own breath echoes in my ears.

i would lie there, still, in the grass,
cool and warm at the same time,
thinking about how the shade of orange sunlight
softens city edges and makes them glow.

everything is always gentler in the sunset,
calm and still
to the point where even capitalism seems tranquil

except for me―forever rough around the edges,
rougher still inside, with bitter blackness
twisting its way through my veins,
anger cooking up a storm inside of me,
ready to boil over and scald--

those sunbeams, let them bathe me;
they'll not change me.
everything around me will soak up the light
and look beautiful doing so,

and i would be a silhouette against the ethereal bright,
faceless and
alone.

Haiku is seven five seven.
Does that mean we leave things out?
Or leave it for interpretation?

he's got slits for eyes,
they wander about, in search for something
to satiate his bustling curiosity.

he's got a thirst for life,
he is attracted to painted alleyways,
he listens keenly to anyone who speaks in the hopes of gathering a story to tell.

he's constantly moving around, speaking in tongues,
his breath smells like summer, his eyelids are heavy ,
his hands are ink stained and he is desperate to create.

and i'm not one to draw or paint; but to me,
there is artistry in the swing of his hands,
there is poetry in his stride, his kindness, in his mousy speech,
there is a story in his sunlit bedroom, his drafts and scribbles,
the type of spectacle worth capturing in a photograph.

his art is merely a reflection
of the beauty contained in his being.