Hey you there, hands in your pockets
where were you walking?
You look mighty suspicious,
I'm just being judicious
lest you're malicious

So it goes every day
Yet we look the other way
as if to say that it's all OK

Until they found their voice
Until they made their choice

Now we're no longer afforded
the right to ignore it
they're standing in front of us,
the ones who have bore it.

They'll yell and they'll swear
we'll stop and we'll stare
They will make us aware
that they'll bear it no more

You're like a beautiful poem, my dear
it's plain to see
it's plain to see
I'm now caught within your verse, I fear
I'm lost at sea
I can't be free

You've trapped me in your sonnet
each syllable draws me deep
like a lilting lullaby
that carries me to sleep

You've written this beautiful world, my dear
I've fallen in
I've let you win
but the story was never about me, I fear

I'm reading the lines meant for him

Have you ever stopped and thought
about the winding path that we're along?
This labyrinth of lefts and rights
that will bring you into my arms?

Years before our lives had been cast
before our very first breaths of air
plans were made that would set our paths
on this crash course that we share

Millions of choices have been made since
that have led us to where we stand
Will it be millions...or only hundreds more
until we're hand in hand?

This army of Chinese butterflies
that patiently flap their wings
are leading us ever so much closer,
if you choose to believe in such things

I've waited for years, my love
for this maze to lead you home.
And when it does, as it surely will
I hope that you enjoy this poem

It's difficult to say when the spring finally ended

The only thing for certain
is that it did end, as we slipped
blissfully unaware, into winter and darkness.

From the highrise apartments in Chicago
to the mud huts baking in the African Sun
From the smiling skulls in the Paris Catacombs
To the open deserts of the great Outback

The wind whispered in the silence
past our giant walls, our empty monuments

past piles of leatherbound books
their pages continually flapping
as if begging to be read, just once more

The hard lines of the cities softened
as the carefully manicured lawns
grew out of check,
turning the skyline green


The human race liked to think we were driving the car
That we were in control
In reality, we were the child in the backseat
with the toy steering wheel

We expected to go out
with an awe-inspiring bang
with a roar of thunder
befitting our importance


Instead (or rather, accurately),
the planet ended silently and without much fuss

a mere footnote in the universe

So focused on your beauty
   that forgetting how...make...words

What would you do

if you found out that the truth was

that destiny was real

that your choices were predetermined

that an omnipotent being in the sky
had his big omnipresent hand
up your tiny unimportant ***

using you to act out its plan
each and every day

All your hopes and fears and special moments really did not belong to you

Those feelings of love, of hate, of excitement, of hopelessness existed only to move the story along, and it was not your story.  It wasn't any of ours.

What would you do?
What would you do?

**Exactly as you're ****** told

Every now and then
I'll wake up
with the sensation of not
knowing where I am

It's a very disconcerting feeling

to open your eyes and stare about the room
with new eyes

What is this place?
How did I find myself here?

I truthfully find it rather exciting.

Those few moments have an intoxicating intrigue.
I have a mystery set before me.
A new place, ready for new discoveries.
A fresh start

What does it say about me that
I sometimes find it rather....

disappointing

when my brain catches up to my body
and I glance around the room
that is suddenly not nearly as novel
as it was before.