Bury me down,
deep in the ground.
It's dark and it's cold,
for only the Earth to hold.

Bury me there,
for it's only fair.
As she promises spring
and winter she brings.

She's too much like me,
cycles of winter, you see.
Down, I should be.
Too deep to become a tree.
Too shallow to freeze.

Bury me far-sent,
for the sea to lament.
She's a beast left to thrash,
she'll take my body to crash.

I write poems and cry,
I sing out to the sky,
and she billows her wind
and cries, too, over my sins.

I'm too much like her.
And it's too much to endure,
the storm that I've spurred.
Wash away - habitual poseur,
drown them now - my life's saboteur.

It's strange to say:
"Paris is for lovers."
Considering love has shipwrecked me.
Here in Barcelona.

It is a long walk.
That one has to take.
There's no map, but lots of directions.
From Barcelona. To Montmartre.

It's not quite apt
to fix everything.
But perhaps it's at least content.
There in Montmartre.

Waiting around.
My hands are still, and my heart is slow.
My stars still here, but where will they go?
Coiling around.
My mind is numb, and my nerves as well.
Does this snakes meal, have will to yell?

The pale off grey looms far among the shores
Beauty in the way it so honestly treads
Earnestly disparaging upon all that it weds
It rips upon our world, more ancient than war

To carry ones self with such a meticulous pride
Such a power to crash, to rip and to rend
It encompasses all of a life, to give and to end
Threads such as hers: to which my heart is tied.

An echo of hounds
Crying out howls and barks
The flutter of birds wings
joins the spirit of sounds
as they end what they sing
and rise to embark.

The pine is still green but orange and red
across the forest floor do lie.
And unlike these birds I know
that she cannot fly.

I would paint every color of every moment of the sky.
Each sunrise and sunset - each glistening moon.
But I'd never recapture the shine of your eye.
And I'll never not say: "You died far too soon."

Porcelain fine, like silver-dipped dusk
frames iris' shine, putting shame diamond.

Soft dark night, sewn of onyx and jet
Flirt sweet to my sight, like they do to the wind.

A song not suited for lungs.
A dance not suited for eyes.
An art built only for hearts.
And to my heart does she give rise.

Quiet leaves and aching branches
weave and twine above hanging heads

The smoke has long abandoned these ashes,
I ask you to finally let go of the dead.

Monsters are made.
And beasts are born.
But we - what are we?
Our nature torn.
As ancient and deep
as the ocean's great sleep
The sea - oh the sea.
Will swallow what we reap.
Boundless as sky.
Like a mockingbird wry.
Be free - oh be free.
Of what we men pry.

The sky's sad soul
Grey and overcast.
The bells now toll
For me at last.

The clouds weep
not once for me.
Shed no tears -
hang just misery.

To cast their shadows
they coo and croon.
Like mockingbirds
of long-missed boons.

Flitting away on
The Spring I lost.
Feather and leaf fall,
As I, too, exhaust.

Such a height to fall from grace —
O pray and hope but don't cry, child
your once-soft hands will tame these wilds,
as your arrow will find it's place.

Each moon glows with the hum of home
as the lone fire sings back with crackled hum.
A heroes journey is about who they become
and the paths they pave from once unroamed.

Fall tree, more beautiful undraped-
Barren form, just as you were shaped.
Frost bites, tearing green - you escaped.
What you've become can only grow.

As you die, you'll be at your crest.
For every year you spent in wrest
You may go to your roots, appressed.
Shreik once last so the wind may blow.

The ground will creak and wind will howl
as your roots are shucked among growl.
Year and year towards the sun you prowl.
Icarus, in the shade you sow.

Too late for us both to ask aid,
too late to tell you why I stayed.
Too soon, for me, to find new shade.
I'll lie with you; as one we'll go.

If I could cup the sun
I would hide it away.
And if I could steal the moon
I would never let it free.

The gardens of the world
can become withered and gray.
And the ancient waltz can stop,
the crashing dance of the sea.

If just for one moment
I can see in your eyes
the shimmering lights
as from beneath the night sky.

No cypress bears such slender grace and yet
The gates of Petra still shall fall
And time forget
The age of Man had come at all
Before the span of aeons poses any threat
Unto the star-appareled beauty of her eyes.
And I, one step behind
Will surely find
Their glimmer never fades e'en when the last star dies.

The sun still shines through the cold
and I still wear myself to the bone,
for iron and steel can rend my flesh
but in the end it will bend at my behest.

Soft hands from a horizon I don't know
Flit small tufts of shimmering white sea
And gingerly test the bones of each tree
To - or from - a world I'm too scared to go

There's a warmth set inside here that imposes
That I reach not past the glass and open no door
That I break not the paths my heart once bore
But my garden is now frosted and I've only corpses of roses

The crackling hearth whistles, snaps and proposes
That I settle my regrets and wrestle no more
Renunciate the whispering wishes and settle my core
But is this warmth just a trapping as the door slowly closes

The frost looks not biting, not sharp as my woes
And the roads look not traveled, not as worn down as me.
But the snow has kept falling, unbounded and free
And I've wasted these moments, too, lamenting my throes.

Twin clouds
Sweet purity
Dancing twix winds of will
Among flits and flutters of hearts
Snowy

Winding of calling shores, cresting waves crash amore.
Odes of wind, evoke my song, the sweet dark sea
May sing along, while bow and string cry out true-
My fluttering form dies every last time
I dare avert my eyes. Your form, pale yet divine.
Moon and stars, dance and shine, all the sky still pales.
Through all their beauty: I am captured by you.

This morning is not
just a shadow of me.
But a dancing
of the trees.
The bite of a new
unwelcome spring breeze.
My ennui should call
for a falling of leaves,
to dot this sunrise.