Every morning she awoke
as he fetched cups and bowls

from the cabinet, the sounds
were gentle awakenings, like

sparrows hopping across
a window sill; oh,  so, still

and quiet the home
became.

Death is a ******
who never misses.
He stalks us all,
calmly awaiting
the proper moment,
takes perfect aim, fires,
and thinks we are gone.
Looking anxiously
over your shoulder
will not avail.
Death is patience incarnate.
He is a gatherer,
ceaselessly collecting,
eternally foraging,
and when he finds us
he slips us into his bag
and thinks we are gone.
Death is a messenger
delivering the telegram
that says our time is up.
He reads it to us
and thinks we are gone.
Death is a conductor
who calls a stop,
sees us off the train
and thinks we are gone.

But death is mistaken.

Death is certain,
but it is not final.
The world we touched
is changed forever
by our journey in it,
however brief or long.
Something of us remains
in a child, a garden,
a painting, a poem,
a kiss, a caress,
a gasping ******.
Our hearts stop beating,
but breath does not depart.
It floats in clouds
of atoms that we were.
Those we leave behind
have only to inhale
and once again
we are with them,
and within them.
Bodies die; love never does.
Each life, sacred and eternal,
inspires Creation.
We are never truly gone.

My inner self thirsts for the Living God
yet my spirit struggles with the darkness
Why are you cast down,O my inner self
you moan and weep over what you cannot change
the darkness tries without ceasing to cover my light
for it cannot darken my light,for my light comes from You
Weary my form is,it needs Your rest,calming my tears
Why are you cast down,O my broken heart
Hope in God,trust in faith,long for love
Wait expectantly for He Who is the help of my countenance
Who restores my inner self to the Everlasting to Everlasting Light

I killed a butterfly today  
then tried to write a poem  
I don’t know why I did it  
It died without a home  
It struck me as compelling  
as I recalled what my parents used to say  
be mindful of your surroundings  
a flap of butterfly wings can change a day  


I thought little of it then  
yet now I obsess as I reminisce  
if a butterfly flap can change so much  
what of the absence of it?  
Have I sealed my fate to infamy  
or paved my way to riches  
but maybe if I **** another?  
my unforeseeable fate switches  


But what’s a butterfly to me?  
it wasn’t much before  
now you expect me to believe  
it holds the key to what’s in store?  
Free will must exist  
at least as long as I believe it to  
foolish of me to think my dead butterfly  
could have some affect on you  


Yet I sit here thinking  
of thoughts I’ve never had  
a liar I would be to tell you  
that I haven’t changed a tad  
It did not have a name  
and I did not have a reason  
yet as I blankly stared down  
I felt as if I had committed treason  


So I sweep away the body  
and leave the room to clear my head  
if my hand’s never clapped  
this butterfly would not be dead  
so be wary of the change you bring  
the waves you choose to make  
that butterfly could have changed a day  
and not believing that was my mistake

when the water calls, go.
even if it's eight degrees
and your boots slip
as you crunch across
the sand and snow
towards waves that roar
and crash like metal shavings.

even as the wind whips
your unsuspecting face,
sending showers of
frozen sand to play
amongst your eyelashes.

even as your feeble eyes flicker
and try to absorb all of this
spectacular frozen wrath
before the wind swallows up
your air and forces you
to look away, gasping
with ecstasy,

smiling like a maniac
as the tears freeze
on your porcelain cheeks.
my god, you've never
felt so alive.

Not the sweetest kiss.
Nor heated embrace
Taste of thy fount of life
Nor thy ***** I'll miss.

Thou art exquisitely beautiful.
A mere touch might soil thee
All I want.. All I need.. All I crave
Is for thee to love me n only me