~for Jonathan Larson (2)~
~~~~
where poets dare to tread
knowing the jeopardy to
themselves when their truths
are outed by the light shedding
come the morning’s birthing,
my ending unwritten,
the methodology unknown (1)
<•>
the tabulations final sum
identified by a =  
couplet doublet line
underlining, undermining,
tho the sign indeterminate,
pos or neg,
worse yet maybe,
zero sun-shiny outed,
well,
rue-sighing
must be one of but just
them three tri-bipolar optionalities

the script unwrit
the possibilities vast,
alone nursing home,
an empty dull
barely furnished,
studio apartment
an unnoticed blah, blah blah;
that’s ok

there will be no vast array,
conclave of family & friends,
his stateless status
formed by a choice reenforced by time,
a man chose a solitary tilt,
till it
was a deathly rigid reality factual,
free willed
~~
the irony sweetbitter,:
he who loved love
sometimes writing wrinkles
of only love poetry
but was
stumped
by its consequences continual
&
stumbled
in and out, deep or not at all ,
but only periodic,
alternating decades from
age ninteen

his leavings will be
minimal,
his trail,
dusted under,
and his sense of wonderment
at the atomic elemental
extant and yet undiscovered,
is where will live his
only wisps of his whispers,
heard  ‘pon the backs
of rushing to nowhere
guest gusts of
canyon winds
of his york;
city of naissance

do not protest
nor deviate with debate,
the future unpredictable
and yet curved hewn from,
made from straight block stone
of absolute clarity
of speckled Barre gray granite
~~
mistake this not
for bewailing,
catlike caterwauling,
ever even the bitters,
of short-lived
the in~between now
and resting place finale
indeterminate,
~~
but follow a path of words,
an Appalachian Trial
roving  through forest & civilization,
multiple states,
safe and dangerous
worldly, wormwood wordfuls
all jumble uttered simultaneous

<>
so we dare to ask out loud,
will I die in dignity,
the answer a stale prequel
question obvious answered
in his heritage-styled genes,
with another wink
of a question;

what is dignity?
~~
alone, surrounded by
no one,
matters not,
headstone irrelevant
for this good morning
of cherishing
words and tunes,
adding a line
here and there,
is dignity enough,
and this,
well known to him,
within his collapsing vein's depths,

so the answer
smooth planed and plain:

This,
this is dignity
one more time,
one more winding
spiraling downwards
uplifting
poem

and a
never ending~never the less
&
nevermore
forevermore
satisfactory
answer

Why does time fly?  
Why can’t it stay?  
I wished it would hurry,  
Now I beg it to wait.  

I counted the days,  
I longed for this flight,  
But now that it’s here,  
Something’s not right.  

I walk like I’m certain,  
Like I know where to go,  
Yet deep in my chest,  
I still don’t quite know.  

Did you feel this too?  
Were you just as afraid?  
Did you stand at the edge,  
Wishing time could delay?  

I take one more breath,  
And let go of the past,  
Time won’t stop for me
But I can make this moment last.

why, because a door opened
is sometimes always-
who knows what may be
science and technology will
be the death us..

Being in his heavenly presence
Was the topmost thrill
That sent chills down my spine
Feeling his manly touch all over me
Gave me unmatched joy
That flowed through the core of my existence

I drowned in his desirable features
His striking sunflower eyes
His velvety, arresting lips
His majestic beard
I was lost in his top-notch charm
His shimmering dreaminess
His formidable build

I couldn’t keep still
In his irresistible arms
His impressive masculinity gave me
Immeasurable pleasure
His commanding, captivating voice
Made my heart soar
I loved him even more
I surrendered to his incomparable allure

hatexits
lovexists

Fingertips travel,
Across my tender landscape.
Flush lust takes it shape.

It tells a story,
the sadness in her eyes,
are words you don't hear,

"If we become the cure for our own wounds,
We can endure our own pain,
And if we love someone,
We can transform ourselves for them."

The scars on my heart
Are abstract like art
There’s both pain and beauty alike
I wear my scars, proud
Let there be no doubt
Of what I stand for if just out of spite
My scars tell a story
Of chaos and glory
That I triumphed and overcame
Now here I stand
A boy turned a man
And an expert that mastered the game

As the lifeless soul travels through the cosmos, it encounters a simple, sparkling light that at first glance, even at an unreachable distance, was able to bring back the dormant intensity that was once the essence of everything.