Whyever can nobody spell anymore?
It's starting to cause me concern:
For as long as I wait,
                                   as far as I go,
It's the one thing that no one has learned.


How can it be that the grammar
Of the world is on sharp decline?
The words that they say,
                                          the sentences short
Grind sensitive ears and mind.


I know that I slip into lapses, too
Where I no longer care for perfection;
I say "runned" and use "i"
                                           where a capital would stand
Though no one's around for correction.

I often found myself in a life sinced passed
as though of smoke under a dark bridge.
I word in a shout or a whisper would float about
in shallow currents or deep below that stolid solid surface
of ice or concrete sent screaming in a simple step.

But to overwhelm such a life since passed
with the simplicity of a slamming door
or perhaps to view through a telescope;
those fine details from the vividity of a bedroom window
on a clear night would send shivers down my spine.

Had I stood idly by in a spellbound daze
as the light passed by with a swift spin and flourish
and faded to a pitch black before my eye,
perhaps then would I have understood
the importance of that touch before loss.

Or maybe had I sprinted silently
through the sauntering street
with my arms outstretched
to catch nothing but empty
air, it only seemed appropriate.

Only then would
I fall to the floor
and sleep it
all away, at least
for a short time.

But then
again, how
would I
have survived
the night?

Only
in
my
past
life.

You sink your teeth in and never release.

A constant shock and AWE
you swim against the current always
keeping your head under water
forgetting to breath
and forgetting
who holds
you
down.

You are a glass bowl with the mentality of a diamond.
Embrace the air in motion,
hug the surface and meet your means to an…
Remember how it feels to be a shard
or part of an unfinished whole,
the light’s refraction pattern through an empty screen
or the statue carved into wood.

Remember who was there to glue the pieces back together,
because even though the hands were gentle
and the words kind,
the sound soothing,
a soft rhythm and
warm beat,
reminding
        that
the          tears
    would blend
with the
        rain,

that someone was there to pick the fragments
and endure the splinters.

I knew from the moment I stared up,
feeling the emptiness under my feet
and the depths by which I’d plunge
that you’d extend a hand of thorns.

But of course, you may turn around and vanish
or hold it over your head and let it
drop,
a worthless shimmering and shattering
of such a thing turned black in absence.

I had hoped you’d take the chance to
turn away from the darkness;
take your eyes away from the ceiling
and let your feet return to the floor.
Spend a while in the cool silence
or let the cold water rest on your shoulders,
inhale without fear,
or fall into breathlessness.
Resist my inertia.

No, I didn’t know it would be impossible.
I only knew that when you held out your hand of thorns,
that you would endure.

Shall we bypass the rules for a bit?

And imagine the (freedom)
of a stroll to point A.
I had imagined such a trance
which the simple escape by a snap or a flick
would leave you in such disarray.
Or perhaps the choice presented itself
in the **** and a vanishing act once more.

Tell me where to go with this…
perhaps you’d enjoy the clouds in the night sky
or maybe even the reflection of the moon on cobblestone.
Take the light out of your eyes and wipe away the color
Or dip your toes in the water.
Pull your hand away from the fire.
Pretend to live.

Point me in the direction of the wind
And follow along, piece by piece.
Stagger along that wall and
maybe one day you’ll
release.

Or jump head first and realize
there was a time when you’d
think first, perhaps for a fleeting moment.
Hear my voice and grasp for my arm
and return.

Or flow downstream to the End
and bask in the warm sun for a time
in the light, so it seems.

Let the warmness remember you like I do.

Had I not waltzed out into that fair night
And faded off into the autumn air,
As such would be the loss I dared endure
If ever such a life I failed to spare.

If I had been aware of such a place
Where blissful contemplation often floats
About in clouds of radiating light,
Perhaps I would find her there.

But even though the sturdiest of walls
Could stand in front of her, or deepest moats
Rest along her path in peaceful currents,
A barrier is yet a broken limit.

Or had she stood atop the tallest peak
Of ever treacherous vertical slate,
Could I simply stare blindly to that spire
As though she held the sun within her arms?

Or could I put my life to such a test;
Perhaps within a split-second decision,
That light which draws me in may never die
But even so, I still aspire to fire.

Or could my own propulsion bring me up
Along those horrifying mountainsides?
If not the danger, then the fear itself
Would lend itself to me and take its toll.

But had I ever reached that daunting spire
And gazed upon her ever lovely hair,
She’d simply spread her wings and fly away,
And leave me in the howling autumn air.

Oh how I wish you’d just stay there

And give me a moment

To catch my breath

Before the doors open

And you’re

gone.