Paintings, closets buried deep - she cannot escape
rustic paint peels from long forgotten faces
in faded works, her tears of tattered pages
that silent sleep, with wings they weep
and long to fly, far from
lonesome cages

The last time I saw you, you were standing there at the gate, watching me walk away  
I was trying to look cool, like nostalgia in motion
That’s a difficult thing to pull off when you’re constantly looking back 
You were smiling and waving, like it was all gonna be alright
I secretly hated you for that  
Everything in my being screamed at me to turn around, to run back to you
I wanted to take your hand in mine and pull you out of there like Wayne did to Cassandra…
Only I didn’t

I did my duty
I turned around one last time at the end of the longest hallway in the world and stole one last look
Blinking back the burning sensation in my eyeballs and the tightness in my throat
And then I plodded on
Just like I was supposed to
I had a stabbing pain in my gut like things would never be the same again
Like the WE we were was dying and going away forever  
At the time I dismissed that sharp unbearable thought as sentimental weakness
The sloshy musings of an admittedly overdramatic youth  
Never would’ve guessed my gut knew so much more than my thirsty brain
With its linear logic and high powered deductive reasoning
I told myself we’d be together again soon
I told myself to focus on the task at hand, and you’d be the reward waiting for me at the end of it all
The bright white light at the end of my long dark tunnel  
I told myself you’d be the sunshine on the other side of the mountain
Knowing somewhere deep down it wasn’t true  
Knowing somewhere deep down, that the WE we were
Now existed only in my fondest memories
Only in the dark moments I would occasionally indulge on the cool side of my pillow
I turned around
And walked out of your life

When I was a kid,
my brother and I
used to make fun
of Christian healers,
because we thought
they were fakes,
but when I grew up,
I developed serious mental illness
that psychiatry
couldn't seem
to cure,
so I turned
to religion
because I thought
it was my only hope,
but in mental illness,
sometimes
religion is more
of a problem
than a solution,
so after studying Zen
for forty years,
I'm still on the same medication
and seeing a psychiatrist
for the same old disease
that I was born with,
and that was after
a hellish time
spent with religion,
so when some people
brought the Dalai Lama
a young child
with a broken leg
and pleaded with him
to heal the child,
he said,
"Take this child
to the hospital."