They are as precious as the lights,
burning brightly in the night,
and more valuable by far
because they shine
for a much shorter time.

See them laughing as they play,
see them swimming in a pond,
see them growing and changing
every single day,
till their flame just flickers out.

All ash blowing in the wind,
fantastic flesh beings
that will not return again,
but once they were children
growing up to be women
and silly old, befuddled men.

See them dancing, and spinning
clutching those they love,
see compassion’s beginning
and gentle heart’s farewell.

Just as soon as they arrive
it is time to say goodbye,
less than a second in
space and time.

See them celebrate and mourn,
see them elevate above the norm,
see them struggle to be better
and falling short more often
than they succeed.
  
I will write them a lullaby,
I will hum it as I cry.
See me weeping, eyes stinging,
until it is my corpse they are bringing.

I hope someone writes a poem for me.

Imagine if
you took
the breadth
and width
of all existence,
summing it up
in one sentence
and let it go.

Or wrote it down,
syllable by syllable
tasting ever sound,
then sat it on the ground
and burnt it.

What if
you watch it
play out like
movie in the night,
but then decided
you didn’t like it
cause it made you
uncomfortable,
so to spite
that bright display
of brilliance
you put it away
and then
never spoke of it
again.

How come
it is so easy
for me to see
that simple beauty,
but when I
share it in poetry,
you turn your back on me
ignoring my plea
for decency.

What a strange species,
that lets its artistry
disintegrate
into a fury of
mind numbing stupidity.

It’s hard to breath
but easy to bleed
with this hole
in her breast,
a gaping wound
in her chest.

She tries to keep
the weeping
suppressed,
to not let her
children
see her depressed,
but it is beyond
obvious.

One body missing
from the chair,
and child’s bed.
She still feels
a quiet dread.

No sleep,
but a little drink
to fill the void;
They say
time will take
the pain away,
but another loss
is what she is
trying to avoid.

She goes on,
while her family
tries to bear
the same agony
with stoic despair.
There is only
air and tension
to fill their
emptiness.

No shared connection
or conversation
to help them all
deal with this.

So, day by day
the nothingness
burrows deeper
and eats away.

The space between,
human beings
expands beyond
reckoning.

Strangers,
keep expecting them
to come back together again,
but the crack between
these human beings
becomes too far to leap.
Till, one day they are
too far gone from each other
to even speak.

The reaper’s victory
is totally complete,
because for one,
he got four souls to keep.

As I say goodnight
to my former life,
let go of those
previous blinking lights
that once defined
my divine
yester self.

I fall asleep
and all that was me
is washed about,
swirled around,
reorganized,
and restored.

I awake refreshed,
form regenerated,
mind invigorated,
and ready for me,
the essence of my being
to be reintegrated.

Almost new,
similar to
but not exactly
the same,
as my previous
version.

I write under heaven’s fire,
a bright orange flaming fury
that sets the skies ablaze,
as the sun rays
makes clouds
look like they are
burning, burning,
moving, while slowly turning,
a righteous delight,
that I enjoy.

Until I feel
the day’s descent
and night’s lovely ascent to
a starry painting
we all can view.

There is a
hell of a distance,
between acceptance
and resistance
against the persistence
of subliminal criminal messages
with ill intent
to dominate
our unsecured
political establishment.

What a crushing chasm
between thinking
and demanding
results without
any reflection or doubt.

In a world with
**** near unlimited
access to
information we can view
and self-educate,
like most modern
auto didactics do,
expanding our minds
beyond the
romantic renaissance
masters of past times,
it is hard for me
to comprehend
intentional stupidity,
despite the fact
I can plainly see
idiots ruling over
my society.

I tell such tales
with recklessness,
as a fearless
hypocrite,
cause I am
unsure
which direction
it will go,
such a fan of myself
cause I also
want to know
where this
crazy show
will lead.

A compulsion,
a need,
perhaps a form
of creative OCD,
ambition
doesn’t really
proceed or follow me,
cause I am so brilliant
that I find
everything
hard to believe,
but easy to read,
write, and figure out
no matter how much
I struggle with doubt.

Shadows tell all secrets,
my pen has been
reborn again,
a phoenix in
computer screen form.

so well-staged,
I make corpses
dig their own grave,
while making major marks,
so they can embark
on being engraved
in the minds of
patrons who love
the poetry
of everything.