I wonder what vampires dream about.
Apple cider and spiders
or 'la playa' views
with white sand
and aged *****?
Do they dream
about saunas and bright lights
or who won
the latest prize fight?
Do they wish the night would end
so they can quit sending
innocent people
into tormented
perpetual dream states?
And how do they even get a date
with hours like that?
No wonder they dream,
scream for deliverance.

Pictures of dead people I know
are smiling and are so full of life
hanging on my wall
reminding me
to seize this day,
because it's not cliche,
and it won't come again.

In seven days of the week
My mind got weak
Tired of dancing with the coin,
learning a lot that seemed vain
Monday to Sunday was the count
That made what i called my week
Full of stressing probability math .

My life is foretold in every crevice of this universe,
in serene seas, and swaying sands,
in scorching degrees and holding hands,
with a lover in my longing arms,
fires raging, and yet i am sheltered from harm.
and throughout my journeys,
it is my deepest desire,
to ignite and set my ambitions on fire,
in the midst of euphoric dreaming,
with my lover on this late summer's evening.
and i shall be at one with the stars,
and my doors in life shall forever remain ajar.

Walk into this space it is endless
sublime congruence with the heavens
open is the third eye looking directly at abyss
i feel a divine hint on my skin
as if it were a celestial kiss
there is no need to travel in doubt
it is written across the evening canvas
open the gates of exotic awareness

It is writhing, it is gifting, entrusting me, and quaking,
yet I, within mine, remain still.
Fore be it told, and beneath footless form, it's subversive,
yet, I dance a sure tango, uphill.
I must be sure, so sure not to mind lone notches and disparity,
as crevices, you see, they arch to transverse.
Fearing but forging the depths of what is migration, we say,
from this hallowed tangle be my rise, my verse.

I’m floundering, I grant, when I think I hold discovery,
so, I tug at the rein of imprint and plan.
It is here my beloved reliance, my precious doubtless tread
is afforded the fair crossing of Pan.
So, although it contests and chides and outreaches,
I am in love and as love, an apprentice.
A conquest won, no never, but here, a concession, a regard-
I am, with no poet’s journey, amiss.**

Lilting ebulliently in ineffable fields of ecstasy.
Mellifluous waves, in life's voyage,
inure us to pulchritude paths, refined by old age.
Multifarious, nascent jubilant days, swaying in paint,
array the way as we sail away.

Terry Pratchett died Thursday. He was a critically acclaimed British Fantasy Author, as well as an advocate for assisted suicide and Alzheimer's Disease. He himself was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in 2007, yet still continued to write, even after he was incapable of using a computer to write (he used a dictation machine afterwards). Before his death at the age of 66, he wrote the popular "Discworld" series consisting of four books, as well as one of my personal favorites, "The Wee Free Men." He was inspirational for me as a writer and he changed my view of writing. With his books, I found my writing style. There are no words to express my awe at his life and works, nor are there words to express my deep sadness in which I tell you that he has passed. May he rest in peace and reach a world even better than that of Discworld.

“There's always a story. It's all stories, really. The sun coming up every day is a story. Everything's got a story in it. Change the story, change the world.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky (Discworld, #32)
Well Mr. Pratchett, you've changed the story.