And then she knew,
And all of a sudden
Every touch
meant something different.

I'm relatively sure
That you don't know how it works.
And I'm absolutely certain
That you don't know how it hurts.
There's a little scar inside,
That twists up when I write,
And, as deeper digs the wound,
The pain begins to bite.
But tasting all the dreams,
And their shards of broken glass,
Leaves you wan, and wanting,
For a sweet, imagined past
That there's no way to recapture,
because it wasn't really there.
And you remember that you're lying,
And the wound begins to tear.

What happens to the stars when there are no words
to write, no songs to sing, no pictures to paint ??
What happens to the stars, when thought stops, and
flow breaks, and vision blurs ??
What happens to those great galactic giants, when
the world turns upside down ??
The sojourners of galaxies, spinning time itself out
before us, in the wake of eternity, left silent in
some poets dream...
Titanic powers of fusion fire, burning for the
lifetimes of a thousand humankinds, churning
with the gravity and desire to hold the universe
together, invisible,
because the painter cannot see...
Stardust, everything, the gears of immortality
turning useless, marching on in solid state
remembrance of romance, and lust, and love.
What happens to the stars when you leave
a poet speechless ??
What happens to the stars,
when you leave me nothing to say...

And then you stopped and smiled, pretty girl,
painted in blonde hair. "Pretty city", she says,
and the only place my mind turns is the lonely
light, left on in the apartment across the avenue.
What if it was our light ?? What would our world
be, if that lamp lit our home ?? These vacations
we'd taken, memories we'd shared. The sand of
the thousand beaches we'd walked on, hand in
hand. That light left on, after the fight last night.
When we walked away. her clothes still on our
floor. Her smell...still in our bed.

Time crumbles over the years, eroding
under the weight of "I should have been
theres", and "backwhens", and "I miss
yous". And, as it erodes, it leaves the
bittersweet smell of what was, complete
with a little taste of memory on the back
of your tongue that will never quite go away...

Soothe livid thought
give cool, quiet birth.
See with one time,
across solitary dawn.
You voice sound,
yet give rain color.
This storm rhythm,
meager, though soft,
over stone could not hold.
Brilliant music beside,
celebrate every drink of wicked wind.
Imagine red.
Taste. Dance. Sing.
Through winter night,
and summer morning.
Slip by like water,
not under myself,
or beneath love,
but remember after who & what you are.
dance through change,
& leave life happy.
When music is poetry,
hear with love.
A heart must speak
between language & thought.
A poet will use
lightning & dirt.
Sound is vision,
light is word...