It probably hurts the most because it wasn't about me.
The squish, the warm glow, starkly empty.
That wisdom, the wit, the caring concern,
My unheeded affections already in urn.
I fostered ignorant hope, tentative dreams,
I shudder to think of all my unfruitful schemes.
There's wounded pride, yes. A small sadness, too.
But now I just pray it was unknown to you.

There’s something about the lonely hours,
Just you and me, our space overlapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

No passion-filled debate, no vying powers,
Lazy destiny dreams, eschewing plans or mapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.

Past today, the future glowers,
But reserve this sacred instant for reflection, recapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

The earth is straining, injustice towers,
Insidious corruption, pain and deceit chafing, chapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.

The darkness consumes, seconds become hours,
Sorrow lurks at hand, irksome insecurities tapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

Yet, peace resounds, the evil cowers.
Hope, the thing with feathers, quietly, resiliently flapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours,
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.

Smoky tendrils waft out now and then,
shards of discomfort,
fragments of rage.
Yet for now I maintain my peaceful facade:
the optimist, thinker,
the dreamer.
The musician, listener,
the leader.
But I do wonder what will become of the blaze of words I don't say.

Time’s ominous perpetual precipice looms,
Darkly beckoning with gilded motives.
The student’s curse worming insidiously throughout the best intentions
The enemy’s ticking fingers foreshadow their fate,
But like blinded deer, we frolic obliviously,
Blissfully remiss in our duty as the forgiven.
Twilight nears, but we are still frozen in the sun.

Navy blue marble mornings,
Still clinging to the shiver of darkness.
Aching in my fingers and ears
Evidencing the zephyr's unkind caress.
An oppressive silence devouring cars and footsteps,
Pets and conversation.
Yet it is embraced, the stillness a balm,
Lending wise council within the maelstrom of thought.
Remarkably conducting the chaos into a concerto.
City stars keeping a staccato beat on the horizon,
A silent purpose statement in the ebb of the valley.
Ay, there's the rub.
How does one free the oppressed who are convinced they are free?
Like elephants bound in twine,
They are potently capable,
Needing only to see past sin's ostentatious facade.
But like the caged bird, they celebrate premature freedom.

The wistful wind tugs at me,
Willing me to come out and play.
I can see it tickling the barren November branches,
See its aftermath in the chaos of crunchy leaves.
Cotton-tail clouds yield before it,
And it wriggles into the core of flustered students,
Who flee from it and clasp their jackets more tightly about them.
I embrace the breeze, its chill enveloping and ensnaring me.
It brings moisture to my eyes and chafes my chapping lips,
Yet it is within this maelstrom that I am reminded of my own vitality.
I am hyper-aware of my own temperature,
98.6 in stark contrast to its harsh ice.
I can feel my blood pumping sluggishly,
Steadily, beneath my fragile skin.
I am reminded of my own mortality.
The pulse could cease,
And the universe would not stop its song.
The fish would stay in rhythm and harmony,
And there would still be new life and beauty.

A sobering thought, but freeing as well.

I am not the center, not even close.