I don’t wish to be strong.
Falling, wind gust knock me over
nothing more honorable
humble
than that of grass
bending, adapting
enduring season after season
never-ceasing browns, yellows, brilliant greens
stones lie upon it
but,
weaving the way
through solid center,
breaking it so
using thoughts of water,
thought.
Never lost,
reaching for sun, for life.
How can something
so lowly,
so plain,
so overlooked,
be something
so beautiful?

It seems to me
everything is strong.
My arms, branches, branching,
reaching for that same sun.
Please.
Please,
just don’t let me be stone.

My dreams haunt me,
that is to say,
they aren't dreams anymore.
They're wishes
whispered into thin air
for no one to hear
but me
for only I have ears for
them,
these ghouls,
sailboats off to sea
without ports
to return to.

My dreams whisper back
just before my eyes
dive into daylight,
"Are you there?" they ask,
"I miss you," they say.
The voice will forever haunt me
and my voice
won't stop speaking
to someone without ears,
always awakening
to tears,
and longing again
desperately,
desperately,
for dreams.

Make candles dance
they love to, just ask them.
It’s no hard task to make them,
which makes making them,
no longer making them.
They gleefully step on the floor,
hum tune, whistle even,
into the wee hours of morning
performing breathtaking displays
of charisma and elegance
and eventually
their light shines no more.
Wax has wandered
away in search of better form.
They decide,
you, for them, that is,
that extinguishing is the ultimate.


Burn out,
well, burned,
so they
may
ignite again.

In the city, stars fade
no, burn out,
like streetlamps buzzing a grey
tangled mess of love,
lost in decision of whether to be
a guide
or depths,
where evil emanates,
tears fall through space
crashing, colliding
with metal, only to explode
in sparks of illustrious ice.
The wind, gentle, waning
smiling down,
all-the-way-down
wait,
smirking,
yes, he smirks.
Blessing holy water
in prisms, colors, seconds,
cries for life,
upon unknowing
lovers in the night.

Us, you and I
in rhythm
we dance
toe-tapping
in language
so intricate
and laughing
carefree
or carefully
at complexities
of simple
nothingness


only to feel
there is
somethingness
after all
of this
is hope
or not
or is
not
nothing
but something