There's a sign on you;
"We Never Close"
like a diner,
there's just something about you
about that sign that made me keep coming back.
A promise of consistency I hold onto,
even on nights where I struggled
between two nightmares,
I opened my eyes and you're there,
with a plate full of things
I never actually remembered ordering,
but it came anyway,
full of hopes and sweet dreams,
which the taste of it gave me a vision
of the next fifty years of my life with you.

It's sad to think,
The cracks on the kitchen walls,
The squeaking of the bedroom door,
The sweet scent of vanilla in my room,
The emptiness of the hallway,
don't even seem like "home" to me
But
I found a home
In the twinkle of your eyes,
In the vibration of your voice,
In the light that kisses your skin,
In every little part of you,
I found a home in you.

The only place where I can come back.
To turn to when everything gets dark.
Because the flashes of the neon lights,
of "We Never Close"
give me an assurance
and some kind of tranquility
and which only you can give.

Whatever experience you are having
Know that, it too shall pass.

Know that at times it will be okay to be not okay
And that, this too shall pass.

Within every experience
something will be there for you.

It will either touch the truth of who you are
Or it will ask you to look closer to find that truth.

On looking, the truth of who you are will draw closer
With patience, with acceptance, with courage, with love, with practice, you will touch it but not hold it.

Whatever experience you are having,
It too shall pass.

She was blue at the bedside ragged and warm
as sirens signaled savage red and yellow far away;
'I love you,' she whispered.

Tuesday's solemn droning sent a cool breeze over the hills,
and coughing sludge at breakfast,
and no one was home...

except for her,
with eyes like war-torn rivers flooding rooms dressed in shadows,
and her mind lit like a film rolling silent in the darkened house.

She was pale curled up in a chair
and started to doze psychosis war-torn sweet
as Death a sharpened mystique graced her thigh and cheek.

And beauty's embalmment played in her head,
and like schizophrenic spilling milk,
she woke.

The sky was beyond and untouchable,
as Tuesday's solemn droning sent cold upon the streets
and the lips of children were made chapped.

My sweetheart once told me
about the passing of the moon,
how it takes an age to burn so bright,
then gone away too soon.

My father once told me
about the whisper of the wind,
how ghosts are soldiers left to die,
in brutal war's rescind.

My shaman once told me
about collective memory loss,
how it takes an age to build a kingdom,
which swiftly turns to moss.

My teacher once told me
about coincidental beauty,
how love is found in patient bliss
and custodial duty.

My pen-pal once told me
about how all of life is work,
how you must toil, toil, toil the fields,
only to end up hurt.

My mother once told me
about the truth found on the coast,
how in landlocked state, she buried thought
and missed my father the most.

My blackout friend once told me
how he re-invented sin,
how truth is but an echo of thought
and great delusion's twin.

The news anchor once told me
about the falling of the towers,
how brothers fell under the mythic spell
of dehumanising powers.

My electrician once told me
about the sounds of abandonment,
how a million memories within the halls,
are now but histories spent.

My garden gnome once told me
about God within the weather,
how we traded in moonlit ponds
for car seats made of leather.

My psychologist once told me
about living with depression,
how it takes an age to face the day
and a second for night's oppression.

My failed love agreed with this
as she turned to walk away,
and for all the words I'd written down,
I had nothing left to say.