The wound on the beating red
Has lain bare for some time now.
The jagged edges do nothing
To stop the oozing flow of blood.
The pain’s immense—it won’t stop,
Not for all the salves in the world.
But an animal shows up,
A cat, a dog, a mouse, a snake, a turtle—
The species is irrelevant.
The animal approaches in a dream,
Looks the red flesh over,
And gently lays a paw or tail or foot over it.
The edges start to shrink,
New flesh sprouting over the bridging
The two far sides, healing has begun.
The wound will never truly heal;
A puckered pinching of the skin will remain,
But it will be in the shape
Of that paw, foot, hoof, or tail.

Relinquish the pencil, the paintbrush,
The paint and the water.
Do not worry about where you’re taken
Or what will be painted.
Let not these things trouble you.
Instead remain blank and open,
Willing to be painted by the ultimate hand.
Do not worry yourself with the picture—
Let the Painter take over,
And the picture He paints
Will be better than whatever you could have.
He brings His Canvas
To the right spot at the right time
And uses the right tools
To form the perfect Picture
That could only be made
On that one Canvas.

The glossy raven-crow perches on the wire,
Its carefully-preened wings glistening
With perfect drops of moisture.
It surveys its domain with coal-black eyes—
Coal-black, but not void, not empty—
Black with all the absorbed knowledge,
The deep black of knowing too much,
The tacit black of the extraterrestrial skies.
The raven-crow omits a sound into the air,
Silent to some, but volumes to others.
The raven-crow spoke directly to the air,
And the air understood the message.
The two share the deeply-seated secret,
So it’s not as much a burden as before.
The sun falls into the embrace
Of the curvature of the Earth.
The raven-crow, having received its cue,
***** its obsidian wings once more,
Sending crystal tears to shatter midflight.

My flesh is a shell,
And I the soul that inhabits it.
Yet the soul is not attached—
It is merely enclosed within
The soft shell of flesh.
I drowse—I dip—
My head lolls in fatigue—
I bolt awake, the flesh snapping—
A moment of disconnect
As the soul still lingers
Just two inches to the left.
Woozy, disconcerting, normal
After many years.
Normal, but not admired—
Gentle heavings are not uncommon
As the soul attempts to escape
The prison walls of flesh.
Pain is felt twofold:
Once in the heart of the soul,
Once in the chest of the flesh.
Surreal, this overlay
Of soul and flesh.
But one becomes accustomed to it
After many, many years.

The colors used to be separate
And lined up neatly in rows.
One could clearly tell just where
One color ended and another began.

But something happened.
Something changed.

The colors melted, swirled
Together on the canvas and
Dripped down, down, down,
Down the canvas, the canvas
That began to stretch and stretch
Off the table and across the floor
And out the door, off to infinity.
There's just a mixed, melted mess
Dripping down my arms and into my lap.
But it hasn't ended yet.
Will I end up consumed,
Or will I make sense of the chaotic colors
Once again?

The pages crumble in my fingers
And wither away to nothing.
The letters swirl off the page
And find some other soul to comfort.
The binding becomes unraveled
One stitch and glue string after another,
Melting down to nothing more
Than liquid sinking through the floor.
The covers themselves are eaten by the darkness,
The voracious darkness that never slumbers.
All I’m left with are my stark white hands
And a rectangular hole in my chest.

They wish to lionize me,
But I refuse.
I turn my face away
But still look them in theirs
And tell them plainly,
“No, that’s not for me.”

A mouse is a mouse
No matter how big
The mane that’s ****** upon it.
A lion roars,
So big and proud,
But he lazes about in the sun
As his fur grows warm
And his eyes grow heavy.
A mouse is small,
But she’s busy.
Her heart pounds fast
As she avoids being seen
While at the same time
Leaving traces of her existence.

The lion will never
Sneak around in secret,
And the mouse will never
Boldly squeak for attention.

A mouse is small;
Any mane would go unnoticed.
A lion is big;
It will be noticed even without his crown.

And as a mouse
Will never be lionized,
Neither will I.

Time keeps marching on.
We are powerless to stop it.
Our strongest forces
Cannot halt the ticking story.
But
What we can do
Is stretch it out—
Stretch time out—
Make every second count,
Fill every minute
With the beating hearts of life.
That is what we can do.
That is how we can remain strong
In the wrinkled, weathered face
Of Time.

My Time is broken now—
Or maybe it always has been.
Yesterday seems so crisp,
Until it becomes Yesterday.
Years ago have been preserved perfectly
Within the recesses of my mind,
And yet Two Days Ago
Eludes my desperate grasp.
The ages blur together,
With only a clear snapshot in-between.
Where is the Doctor?
Where is the Repairman?
How much longer must I wait
Before my Time runs smoothly once again?

Someone will love you the way you deserve to be loved.
Someone will see your rough hands and love that you have the tenacity and determination to overcome everything you've faced.
Someone will love you enough to ***** their own hands and help you carry your burdens and hardships.
Someone will love you enough to see that you have monsters but not press you to share them until you're ready,
And then they will love them as they love you,
Or they will help you vanquish them.
Someone will love you and all your quirks.
Someone will look at you and see a strong man or woman who can overcome anything he or she sets his or her mind to.
Someone will love your intellect and look upon you with the awe you deserve.
Someone will love your laugh and the way it lights you up from the inside
And they will take it upon themselves to help you laugh,
Even if they have to wait a bit because it's difficult for you.
Someone will love you night after night after night,
And they will love you enough to wait.
Someone will hold your hand even when it's sweaty and it's okay because theirs are sweaty too.
Someone will love your face even when it’s completely natural.
Someone will accept your body as your body, no matter its fitness level or smell.
Someone will understand that your stomach growls because you're hungry and that's only human.
Someone will be concerned whenever you cough or sneeze.
Someone will be patient for you and reassure you over and over again about the insecurities you harbour in your heart.
Someone will place a calming hand on your knee when it's bouncing, and remove it if it makes you uncomfortable.
Someone will find it touching that you remember everything you say to each other.
Someone will protect you when you're scared and understand when to encourage you and when to let you do what you want at the pace you want.
Someone will look forward to gazing into your eyes and seeing all the emotions that lurk there,
But they will know when not to say anything.
Someone will love the ink or music notes or movement leaking from your fingers because that is your soul coming out and it's beautiful.
You are beautiful.
Someone will love your sense of humour and look forward to your jokes.
Someone will love your teeth because they're yours,
And your eyes because of the secrets they hold within.
Someone will be able to tell when you're forcing a smile on your face and wait patiently for the real ones.
Someone won't care about how fast or slow you talk because it's still your voice.
Someone will love your lips and anticipate the time they can next kiss them.
Someone will see you for you and love you regardless.
Someone will wait for you to outwardly show your emotions,
Even if it's only with them.
Someone will love you, someday.

The cream expanse is withered,
Dry and cracking in the heat.
The black words on the pages squirm,
Wriggling like worms in the haze.
At the same time, the cream is frozen,
Brittle and flaking in the cold.
The black words lie dormant,
Still and lifeless on the page.
And yet in this world of cream and black,
There’s another color that appears.
Its bright red crimson is glowing,
Leaking from the holes in the letters,
Dripping from the edges of the page.
The black text is alive;
The cream paper it inhibits is alive;
How could anyone say differently
Once they’ve seen the sparkling passion?

The clockhands spin,
‘Round and ‘round,
Trapped forever
In an endless cycle of chase and capture,
Flee and chase,
Chase and capture.
‘Round and ‘round
In an endless dance
That lasts long after the hands stop moving.
The hands will spin for eternity,
A backdrop to Life.

All they see is a white rose,
White and unblemished.
To them, the thorns are dulled
And hardly even there.
They poke and **** it,
Hoping or seeking to find
At least some sort of gray
Among its pure white petals—
And they find nothing.
So they sit back contentedly,
Satisfied to watch this white rose
Bloom to its full extent.

But they do not see.

For inside this rose of snow
Is a bud of blood.
The inside of this blood bud
Is black and rotting,
Withering and dying.
The taint has begun to work its way
Through the needle-thin veins
And is carrying its gray
To the tips of the petals.

And still they see nothing.
Still they see only unblemished white.

In the deep shade cast by a towering mountain
Lies a monstrous warehouse. And inside this warehouse
Is column after column after row after row after row
Of shelves, shelves, shelves, more shelves,
Fading off into the gloom of the farthest corners.
And on each of these shelves sit dolls—
Hundreds, thousands, millions—billions?
And each of these dolls is defected.
The reason for the defect is branded across the forehead,
Melted plastic forming the biting words:
Pathetic.
Weak.
Prideful.
Snappy.
Self-centered.
Egotisti­c.
Stupid.
Ignorant.
Useless.
And on and on and on these dolls sit,
Shelf after shelf, row after row, column after column.
The dolls gradually age—slowly, almost unnoticeably.
But they age. Each is an “improvement”
Of the one next to her.
The newer model would get though a bit more,
Last just a bit longer, but still fail at some point.
And so the brander draws near, and brands the skin,
Melting plastic to drip softly down as tears.
But the doll can’t cry.
She’s already been shut down and awaits
The day the space next to her will be filled.

The O draws nearer, nearer, nearer—
Consuming, consuming, consuming all—
Swallowing the world, spitting it out,
Redevouring it
Black black gray—
Swirling swirling swirling mess
Time color images thoughts feelings
All consumed, all devoured
By the gaping maw of O
O, O, O
The owl hoots in the night
And the bats beat their leathery wings
Trying to escape the O, O, O
The night, the night—O, the night!
Dark days, dark days
Inside the pit of O—
Days dark as night, dark as the heart
That has shriveled up, withered,
Gray veins pumping sludgy shadows
Through an empty husk,
Around around around in a circle,
No beginning, no end,
No strength to break free of that
O O O

Beyond the perfect painted picture
Lies a chaotic catastrophe.
Inside the perfectly shaped box
Is a jumble of fragmented pieces.
Behind the flawless painted mask
Is dry, cracked clay.
Underneath the flawless skin
Is ripped and bleeding muscle.

I lead him to the gallows--
My child, my child.
I do not want to let him go yet.
Not to the gallows,
Those metal jaws of finality.
But I know in my heart
That I have to.
He's been holding my hand for a while now,
Pulling me ever closer.
I did not want to listen.
I did not want to acknowledge those gleaming silver teeth.
But, my child, you have pulled me close.
You have shown me your heart,
And your eyes full of tears.
You know it is time.
So goodbye, my child.
Let me kiss you one last time
Before you release my hand
And stand upon that podium
Where you will disappear.
Let me hear your voice one last time.
I love you, my child, my child.
I love you.

The edges are neat and crisp,
And the wrapping paper gleams
In the weak sunlight
Filtering down from above.
Old, wrinkled hands reach out
And grasp the boxed gift.
Flakes of charred, black skin
Drift down upon it like ashen snow.
Slowly, carefully, the trembling hands
Undo one corner after another,
Flap of paper after flap of paper,
Until at last the brown box shows through.
The box is opened by the hands
As someone waits nearby,
Watching patiently to the end.
The box at last is opened,
And the gift inside is revealed:
Nothing is inside that box,
Nothing but air.
Confused, the hands life pleadingly
To the watching man nearby.
The man smiles warmly
And grasps the hands in his.
Instantly, the hands are healed--
New skin blooms
Where there once was burnt flesh.
And together, the two--
The new and the old--
Disappear into a golden light
That’s pouring from the box.

The tears streak down your cheeks,
And the snot leaks out your nose,
But you’re still beautiful.
There’s a certain beauty that radiates
From your eyes and from your face,
From your heart and from your soul,
A silent strength that you have trouble seeing—
Even with a special mirror.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
And I behold yours.

A fresh page, a clean start,
The past’s colors mute.
The calm before the storm,
A sense of agitation
Lingers in the stomach not
Quite yet—
But it’s coming.
It’s coming.
The new year is just another day
So why the expectancy?
It’s become an icon, a symbol,
For white, for fresh,
For a chance to start again
And look forward
Rather than behind.
Pick up the brush, the pen, the ink—
Roll out the parchment, the laptop,
The rumpled napkins in the corners—
And let the vibrancy flow and stain
And leak into every crevice of the world.

Disillusioned.
Misinformed.
Following nothing
But smoky shadows.
Cold and calculating,
Warm and thick—
When cool heads
Meet hot blood,
The results
Are disastrous.
Flames extinguished
By watery tears.
Far away,
Right in front—
It’s all the same.
It’s all the same
Dark red
And gray water.

The writer pours his soul into being,
Letting his blood turn to black ink.
It splashes onto the pages and forms words,
Words that give his life meaning.
He sits back, looking at his hands,
His hands that created this wonderful work.
But then he pauses, staring in captive horror—
The words—his words—are moving—
Moving quickly—squirming—rising up—
Bunching together—swarming toward him—
They’re at his hands now—no, his arms—
His neck—choking him—darkness—
*Why?

Sidestep, sidestep,
Twist and lunge.
Day is coming;
Night is done.
Words elusive
Slip though time,
Never joining
To form a line.
Grasses wither,
Flowers bloom;
Sun shines brightly
Amidst the gloom.
Deepest blackness,
Force of night;
Nothing hidden
From its sight.

A vast plain stands before me,
So large the horizon blends
With its yellow-green grasses.
I’m always walking,
My feet are always moving,
I never take a break.
Sometimes the plain moves
Normally underneath my feet,
But, sometimes, it rushes past,
One step taking me seven leagues;
Sometimes, only two centimeters.
I don’t usually see others
On this vast plain that I’ve come to call my own;
And when I do, it’s usually
Just silhouettes or shadows,
Nothing substantial or solid.
Sound is distorted here, too;
Sometimes low and slow,
Sometimes high and fast—
I can’t usually understand
The vibrations that come from the shadows.
Of course, I can’t understand
The grasses that bend in the wind
Either.
I can’t understand the plain
That moves at different speeds
Either.
All I can do is take one step,
Then another, and another,
Until I finally find out
Where the plain meets the horizon.

We live in a world of wires,
Of snakes and electrical impulses.
We live in a world that’s both
Interconnected and ignorant.
We live in a world that has been skewed
By the minds of mortal men.
We live in a world of color,
Yet people cling to black and white.
We live in a world bursting with promise—
Yet we look across at each other
And down at what lies below
And ignore the life that sparks around
In lieu of the ghostly imitations
That streak through the snakes.

The language drifts around like smoke,
Curling around fingers and through minds,
Whispering of things half remembered,
And hinting at new knowledge.

At the end of the day,
When all is said and done,
There’s only one thing that remains:
You.
Constant and never-ending,
You remain.
Unconditional and all-accepting,
You love.
Again and again,
You forgive.
You are perfect in every way
And I am proud to call You
Father
Teacher
Friend
God.

Let me see with the eyes of a child—
Pure, innocent, naive,
Unaware that mental boxes exist.
Let me see things in that special light
That shines forth from everyone,
Past any dark sins and evils.
Let Death return to an inquisitive curiosity
At the sudden stillness of an insect or a fish
And not bloom into a growing ache
That lingers in the heart.
Let the colors be revived
And all sights become brand-new.
Let the boundaries be erased
And laughter be drawn instead.
Let me see, as a child does,
The true power of a warm embrace
Or a friend that never leaves.
Let me see with the eyes of a child
Just once more,
Before even my current vision fails me.

When two things
Pull equally in opposite directions,
The object doesn't move.
When Red battles Blue,
Nothing gets done.
Red says one thing,
But Blue says another.
Only Blue
Can see both Black and White;
Red only senses them.
Both are Purple,
So which is correct?
Red wants to rush ahead;
Blue wishes to hold back and wait.
What will happen?
Who will win?

There's Green,
Standing off to the side.
It's lost its voice;
Blue and Red
Have stopped listening long ago.
The words have stopped coming
From Green.

The child floats inside the bubble,
Calm, unconcerned, at peace with
The walls that surround her.
The bubble keeps her in;
The bubble keeps the others out;
All is well, and she is content.
She drifts alone in solitary
Freedom, a single word printed
On the curving walls:
Alone.

The child floats inside the bubble,
Panicked, terrified, banging upon
The walls that surround him.
The bubble keeps him in;
The bubble keeps the others out;
Nothing is okay, he cries to himself.
He drifts alone in solitary
Confinement, a single word branded
On the curving prison walls:
*Lonely.

Red, green, blue, orange,
Black and gray and white,
Purple hues and yellows too
And colors of the night:
These are the pigments
That fill our world,
Morning, noon, and night.
How foolish it would be
If we couldn’t see
The colors of the day.
But we can hear and smell
And taste them, too,
So they never truly leave.

There are so many stories swirling around me,
So many twisting threads of Life.
All I have to do is reach out in front of me,
And grab one of the swirling scrolls,
And spread it out on the table before me.
Then, I can read it, step-by-step;
Page-by-page the truth makes itself known;
Word-by-word, a brand new color is revealed.
My Light may dim; it may brighten—
Regardless, it’s changed forever,
And it changes yet again
When I pull another manuscript
From the plethora of stories that dance.

When heads are bowed
And eyes are closed,
The soul escapes.
They leave the Earth
And float on high
Throughout the aether.
They drift together,
Bumping into each other,
Sharing thoughts and feelings.
It’s a beautiful sight,
A beautiful feeling,
Those glittering souls.
Free from the burdens of life,
Bathed in the warm glow above,
All is well.
Until, at least, to the physical
They return.

I hear the breathing of souls around me,
Hear each intake and exhale of life.
I hear the shuffling as they shift in their sleep,
And my heart sings them a soft lullaby.
I see them stretching as they yawn,
Stretching to the eternal sky.
I see them as they grow and learn,
Testing whatever waters they face.
I taste the sweat and blood they shed
And feel their joys and sorrows as my own.
I smell the very essence they leak
From every pore, every crack in their hearts.
I hear every intake and exhale of life,
The breathing of souls around me.

Let my words bleed,
Bleed truth,
Bleed life,
Bleed love.
Let my words bleed for you,
Staining the paper red
With my Self.

It's a delicate dance that writers perform.
We bow to our insanity and take hold of its hand.
One, two, three; one, two three; one, two, three.
Our feet spin on the fragile glass floor
That is called "proper society" by the masses.
Our coattails or skirts fly out as we dance,
Whipping through the air like our hands do
When we write or scribble or type.
One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.
The tempo changes, the dance is changed.
Still we dance the time away with our partner.
The lighting changes with our mood—
Broadest daylight to deepest night.
Each writer has a preferred time.
One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.
Sometimes we glimpse another's partner,
Bump into them by "accident."
And then our own partner changes,
Taking on just a hint of the other's partner.
And we glide along the dance floor,
Our hearts beating out the rhythms of life,
Our heels clicking out our words,
Our partners forming the stories we write.

For a moment,
I am changed.
For a moment,
I cease to have an early body.
For a moment,
I melt away.
For a moment,
I am no longer myself.
For a moment,
I am Love itself.
For an instance,
My arms are no longer arms
But are tendrils.
For an instance,
My embrace is not physical
But emotional.
For an instance,
I turn into Love
And wrap the other
In a penetrating warmth
That I pray reaches
The beating heart within.

I have wings on my heart,
And they let me soar.
True, there are several arrows
Piercing the thin outer skin,
And a few feathers are missing,
But despite all that,
I can still fly.
The joys of others are the wind
That lifts me to new heights.
Two hands wait beneath my heart,
Bolstering it, and being the strength
Needed to carry on.
They’re large and warm,
Full of compassion and healing.
They’re always there and
Never have they failed
To catch my fragile heart
When it wavers and dips.
When I falter, they gently ****
My heart in the right direction:
So up and up I fly,
To the face of my one true Valentine,
To my Lord and Savior
Jesus Christ.

I look to the horizon with a spyglass,
Trying to discern what’s there.
A small child waits beside me,
And I clutch her hand;
She grips my hand in return
While clinging to the fabric I wear.
We have never been apart in all our years,
Ever since we first met.
I glance at her every now and then,
Look her full in the face,
See the wrinkles that line her eyes
And the pale complexion she shows.
Every so often we converse;
Her voice is still and quiet.
I have to strain to hear her words,
But she has to hear mine as well.
We talk about the days gone by,
The ones she’s living now
While to me they are events of the past.
And once our conversation is over,
I return the spyglass to my eye
And stare beyond the horizon.
I wonder what it’s like over there,
What lies in wait for me.
I imagine myself among those shores,
Wriggling my toes in the sand.
But the time has not yet come,
And I still have a child to care for.
I won’t ever let this child go,
And she knows this,
And adheres herself to my side.
I have been told to let her go,
To leave her with those who will care for her
In ways I never can.
To look around me instead.
But she looks at me with those wide eyes
And my heart is swayed.
So she stays with me on my journey
To beyond the merging of above and below.
And someday, someyear, the horizon
Will come to me, and I to it,
And at last I will know
What was waiting for me.

Can you hear it?
Do the strains of Earth
Reach to Heaven above?
I think you can hear it.
I want you to hear it.
I want you to hear it,
These notes entering my ears.
They remind me of you.
Can you hear it?
I’m sure you can.
You have to.
Please hear these songs.
Hear the floating,
Dancing, twirling notes
Of both joy and sorrow—
Hear the bittersweet
Tears rolling down my cheeks—
Hear them,
And remember me.

When the gold burns low,
And the tongues lick no more,
The shadows come out to play.
They leap and twist, hover and fall.
They bloom and they wither;
They chase each other
Around the dying lights.
They refuse to die, the shadows of light.
Yet die they must,
Along with their snaking friends,
And at last they are born away
By the wispy hands of the wind.