Not an ounce of anger
nor arden rage
which typically fill the pages.
There’s a subtle calm
causing such hesitation;
a sense of being stuck.
-Restless, drifting
in a sea of tranquility.

As night quiets the songs,
silence awakes the mindful.
rummaging
through old wounds;
now silly scars of course,
but how they bled once!

The vast expanse
is worrisome.
The search is futile,
in the end is all very foolish.
Knowledge allows the proposition
that there’s a lot we’ll never know.
While ignorance is loud and obnoxious,
completely unaware of it’s shortcomings.
The struggle
takes place in between.

Old New York stared back -resolute,
as I tried to write.
Every line seemed trite.
A scribble here,
A doodle there,
The paper was pale with frustration
And my hands were distraught with tension;
couldn't write a decent line.
Not even after a few glasses of wine.
I love the city and how nothing stops moving,
but perhaps
It moved too fast.

thought the park would help,
really thought it would.
seeing the birds,
the trees,
the colors in the sky
and the light bouncing off the lake.
but, I saw past it,
saw the highway
running along the green's edge.

Keeps searching,
Hoping.
If not this one,
The one still to come.
Heart is rapidly beating,
Constantly grieving.
Eyes flickering,
-Always losing,
Gaining years
And mascara infused tears.

Dust sits on the shelf,
no books or papers
only dust,
remainders of life.
-Staring at it,
feeling nothing.
Hoping for nostalgia, but no.
This sudden detachment is worrisome.
The work can suffer
you know?