She get’s nice weather  
when she walks through my mind
The clouds burn off
at her skin’s golden shine
Even clear skies
betray their own blue
And borrow warm yellows
that remind me of you
My pulse fails to match
with her whimsical pace
And her visage obscures
those footprints past traced
The streets are unnamed,
for the road she has parted
Carrying my thoughts
to places uncharted
It’s silly to think,
even crazier to say
You’re sometimes asleep
when your walk makes my day
Because each time I find myself
thinking of you
I get to enjoy
the nice weather too

You stayed with her smile
committed to her curves
her eyes her laugh
nowhere to be found
you wake up to no sound
her lethargic
you nostalgic
for a time that never was
always a problem and never a solution
stress, her only trigger for attention
looming, looming, looming
dread, despair, the heirs of her mood
crowned at last
King of the pretty woman who did not age well

I wished for sympathy from the crowd in some sense
A soliloquy would reveal my morbid intent
Then tear burned lenses would hold a reflection
Curving their contempt towards my affection

I sought after sympathy from the crowd in some way
That a minor character might die in my play
A supporting actress would cry her last chorus
And I readied to draw tears for the both of us

I coveted sympathy from the crowd in some fashion
But she dropped to the floor before assumed "action!"
Curtains now drawing, how should I act?
The audience sees clearly, dry eyes still intact

I demand sympathy from the crowd at last
Disbelief's broadcast came grouped in a gasp
"This is not the tragedy, her character did not die!
Only the mask that wears her, please stand by"

Oh my—what’s a sober clown to do
Someone needs to laugh but he’s all out of *****
Oh my—what’s a blind man to do
He opens his eyes to find he’s deaf, dumb, and mute
Oh my God, I don’t say in vain
I would if I could, I don’t even know His name

If just one bug knew how all the flowers bloom
He’d hang himself inside his own cocoon

which way does the moon trend

against the darkness does it spin?

and where do the stars end

I feel I have them on my skin

because when light does bend

so do I into kin

steel cold looks
cool worked metal in hand
American workers pause
waiting to take stand
not on trial
but as witness to tell
of planes and plain faces
they have known so well
cross examined
with tacit emotion
by averting eyes broken
and curtains unopened
the artist a jury
convicts without words
his portrait the judge
its sentence unheard
but architectures fate
arcs down towards man
to remind him
of lost history's demand
to imitate the past
on infertile soil
to bear no fruit
and continue their toil

I grew up in a tree and believed it to be,
safe as the branches enclosed around me.
On strings of breeze God may pull as he please,
the life over leaves dances with ease.
But when I watched by bees and birds as they fly,
my limbs chagrined as branches down wind.
Unaware before, I then yearned for more,
now feeling bound to my link in the ground.
Shifting my gaze, grip turned to graze
as my eyes slid down to the trunk I had found.
What could it be that afforded safety
as I sat above graves among the leaves and the aves?
Was I anchored by tombs no man can exhume,
or was this decay the cause for trees' sway?
To the mound I fell by gravity compelled,
but when I did peel at what earth had concealed
I found vines much stronger than ivy.

Now posture is prayer so I look to the air,
thanking the roots for taking such care.
But before I feed fibers completing the rhyme,
I must find time for the trees I will climb.