Poets were created
       to emulate grandeur,
            whilst suffering the blues

I became a flower the
day i saw the sunshine
in your eyes. It looked
prettier than the velvet
and blue skies. You
coloured my wilted petals
and helped me stand up
and rise. You gave me a
stem instead of shiny
expensive gems. And
that's why I became a
sunflower to feed off the
light you have from within.
To chase the sun before it
sets down and my petals
start to tilt and face gentle
earth's grounds* ~

And so, we celebrate our love
as if it were a religion to be believed in

& praise our days
& all the ways
that we discover

to love one another.

Each touch...a parable.
Each kiss...a little miracle.

You are sunlight
stained & transformed by glass.

You are a candle
kissing & caressing the dark.

You are incense
mingled with music.

You are the hymn
that ends & begins
& transcends all things.

Each kiss...a parable.
Each touch...a little miracle.

Touch me and i will break,
I am a piece of glass,
Hit me and i will repel with the parts you hate,
With the lies you have told,
This is real no touch of gold,
Throw me and i will rot,
With the things you are around.

Past is an illusion with the things you have done,
Commit the sin and off you run,
The judge has the power to summon,
So make your way towards divine truth,
Break the prison and steal the fruit.

Worship your fate and make a choice,
Create and innovate with the device,
Yes the glass is fragile,
Respect its width and make it do,
The work of human with the patience blew.

Breaking is its habit no one can change,
Though you think but cant avenge,
Pack your list and pave your way,
The glass is your night and it is the day,
Reflect it with care to see your future,
Careful with the pieces could it be rupture.

I opened the cage
of my ribs for you,
To reveal my softly beating
heart and all that lay
within it.

But you? No.

Your heart is still encased
in that cage of yours.
I can hear it,
each beat reverberating
in your chest.
Yet, I cannot see it.

Maybe you're just shy,
Or
Maybe I just don't hold
the key to the cage
around your heart.

Only the dead know the end of War.*


The truth at the heart of combat:
those who have seen war never stop seeing it.

There is combat and there is the rest
of your life. Nothing ever measures up
to the mad rush of combat; nothing in
your life can compete with that
heart-rending, dire intensity.

Explosions, fire, everything extreme,
the melding of terror and pleasure
into an apocalyptic ****** that rocked
your soul, your mind, your body.

Not the sort of thing you encounter
at the office or in the factory.

So some small part of you never returns
and in deep secret longs to feel it again,
to return to that holy, redemptive horror.

War is life increased exponentially;
it is life on the brink of insanity;
it is the most alive you will ever be.

The truth at the heart of combat:
those who have seen war never stop seeing it.