This masters year is nearing it's revolution.
The months draw nearer.
The dark approaches it's own hollow.
It releases all pieces.
Ejects the past from its space.
It prepares to be enlightened again.
Springing from these dark days, I am
Coming.

I have arrived and behind my eyes
I know what is true.
I know love lights all paths to you.
I know I am you.
Though I feel a weight upon my shoulders.
I carry bags of my past, still.
I try to abandoned them.
They seem to want me.

These bags are packed with folded rags
Of stories told and forgotten.
They replay a story of saddened days.
Fears begotten path.
Where each second spent in its chest
Lent to the next. The nightmares surge
in my memories.

And it's so clear to me though I seem to
Lack some skill.
Some path to standing still.
To waiting until the storm has passed.
I prefer to move with haste and cleanse
As I move.
Waiting for the waves to crash seems
Immautre. Though,
I am feeling something here.

My movements feel too fast, now.
Now they feel weakened by my past.
As the river passes I just know not to drown.
I interact with the waves from above.
Though here is the sticky stuff,
You are here.
I know it.
This masters year has shown it.
This year is rolling around through time,
Curling within and releasing the stems
Of the 9.
Resisting the passed times.
Heeding the signs to break ties.
To separate the cycles intent.
They'll go on until we master them.

33rd degree to see me.
I had to climb this height to have a viewpoint.
I had to reach this moment to be free
To release the heat they encapsulated me in.
I no longer want to question my worth.
My capability to be loved.
My darkest, hidden corners...
They are fully being alarmed.

The light is coming.
You have me in your sight
And you stand still until you capture me.
I will know.

Dregs at the bottom of my coffee cup,
the burnt remains I could never finish up,
My poems always had to rhyme and I hated that,
I hated me.
Sediment at the bottom of a river,
it turns from crystal to mud,
still carrying the weight of a 100,000 tons,
but never looking pretty enough.
Sediment at the bottom of a river,
the farther out you are, the bluer it becomes
because you can't see the piles of dirt underneath
or the diamonds that lay beneath

From your end of
Telescope

Thirty years scans
Infinity

From my end merest
Blink of eye.

When slightest wink
Of billion mile
Star

Outlasts every planet
In the sky

Tuffy skinned a cat
Behind Walker Bros. Stores;
He was probably in on
The sand-girl's situation,
But no one believes her;
Yet believe Tuffy capable of such.
He wrestled ostriches and kangaroos
At Jungleworld,
Real ones.
Some say the animals were old and drugged,
But Tuffy pinned them all the same.

Margo's house burned to the studs
Following her ***-driven ******.
That was thirty years ago,
The same time Jungleworld,
With its spiders, snakes and caged bear
Died off with Tuffy and his peacock,
And the secrets of his take downs and holds.

I never saw Tuffy perform
His flaming knife-throws,
Destroying balloons between lips,
Slicing straps with his swordplay.
He would've thrived in Venice with Leonardo,
Dazzling Popes and Princes,
Who would be benefactors and patrons.
Tuffy would have lived in a villa,
On a mountainside, overlooking his audience,
And applauding them for their attention to detail.