The world sings,
Of everything beautiful and true
Even if we are used to being used
And are still learning to be fruitful
In our endeavors and our cleverness
We're all still treasure chests of truth

The goddess of the spent moon skulks to her feathery bed of fiery dawn.
Wrens through the uplands wend the fence weft with piecemeal straw.
Lips painted like pomegranate groves, dashed with fructifying sweets.
A kiss is a far-off and warm opening of lips like the sun into forest gleams.

Duality,

I'm the Jekyll to my Hyde, I'm the Poet, the Prophet, the Monster and Man.

Exist in both places, bring the shadow to the show, shine a light and work behind the scenes.

Balance, I maintain the performance. Everday the lines blur, I wave my hand and a trick, I speak out of both sides of my mouth, Edward Mordrake  and Phantom of the Page, written words are my tool, they serve in action of lies and truths that would normally be spat on.

When the light shines I step up and perform, take a bow, tap the mask, a nod to you!

A joy for me is a joy for you, I play the part of victim and villain, I am actor and professional, novice level grandmaster.

A Jester of all trades, every word calculated, every action a movement of stagework.

Masked and unmasked, raw and hyding in plain sight.

I perform for you and when the lights go out, I work in shadow and orchestrate the light.

when my ancestors told me
that life always
hangs in the balance
I never imagined
that what my soul
was hanging from.

am I an outstretched arm
waiting to be pulled?
or is a
metaphysical noose
tied around my bodiless neck?  

constantly grasping for breath,
always in the shadow of death.

- n.t.p.

i'm a little older now,
a little less naive.
there used to be
more colour
to my dreams,
but now there's just
a residue
of chances that i missed,
forever lost in time.

i'm a little smarter now,
a little less surprised
when people leave;
no heartbreaks,
no goodbyes.
and now i'm just
collecting lies
from strangers that i kissed,
one sparkle at a time.

i'm a little older now,
a little less naive.
sometimes i see
their faces
in my dreams,
but now they're just
a residue,
a taste upon my lips,
forever lost in time.

the currency of
grieving is in....

casseroles and soups,
left with notes,
on the back doorstep

flowers, bright, beautiful
and fragant,
delivered by gangling, teenage boys.

awkard silences and cups
of lukewarm tea.
mumbled condolences and
too tight hugs

late night rememberances,
after,
far too many drinks

tears, laughter and
in-house jokes...
photos, stories and 
space for quiet reflection.

these things are...
the dollars and cents
of  grief for a friend

but when all is, said
and done....

i would much prefer
to be penniless,
begging on the street,
with pockets empty
and moths for friends.

Sometimes
We all shine
Be it from powered stars or reflective moon
Out of conscious or uncommon try
Or peculiarity of mind
Well all are
At least capable of such kind emergence