Often people ask me
What it is I do
Poet of the times
Purveyor of the truth

Peeling back the onion skin
Carving at the rhyme
Pouring drinks of imagery
Squeezing out the line

Taking out the sickle
Knocking down the weeds
Till I uncover the beauty of
Hidden treasures underneath

Often people ask me
What it is I see
In the ink of illusion
Known as poetry

I say the line of work I'm in
Suits this poet fine
Where so often I catch myself
Working overtime

I'll never forget the day you stopped speaking.
It has remained in my memory for as long as I can remember.
You were bawling because your throat ached.
Your voice came out in a hoarse whisper one last time before you
never once opened your mouth again.

I sometimes blame myself for your silence.
I've made you angry, upset and miserable
to the point where you lost your voice, or rather
your voice deserted you.

So why don't you hate me?
Why don't you avoid my gaze?
Could there still be love left inside of you?

My dear, don't take  any offense to this, but I like it better this way.
Your silence speaks to me in a way your voice never could.
It seems as though we have a better understanding.
There is no more yelling, no more broken glass on the floor,
no more insensitive words.
There is only peace.

Sometimes, the best form of communication is the one that does not require words.

Sometimes I close my eyes,
And pretend I'm up in a tree.
And it's the tallest tree in the world.
And I can see movie stars, and presidents, and the nobodies.
And they see me,
And they smile,
And they wave.
And they know that I am important.
Little old me
In my big tall tree.
And it makes me feel less tragic.

Quiet and uneasy.  
The voiceless breeze at my back was thickly draped with irregular design.
There I was... staring at my warped reflection in the remoteness ahead of me.
A  revelation violated my over crowded mind and before I could even fathom my displacement,
the moon started melting.

As if calling out to werewolves,  the hypnotizing moon started dripping moonlight.
Glowing moon drops crashed to the ground and I found myself surrounded by the dreams of a thousand  kings.
Beyond the limitations of clockwork, I found myself surrounded and under siege by the visions of a thousand visionaries.

There I was.
A captive to crowns of light.
Taken.

A hostage to a deserted kaleidoscope of angelic halos...
So many blinding halos, all riddled with hidden wisdom and rare moon drop truth.
Halos infected with unfound secrets handed over to the chosen...
Secrets handed over by the masters of celestial emptiness themselves.

Like euphoric dreams within our nightmares...  
the same nightmares  found within our lost dreams...
The same lost and misunderstood dreams that dwell within a moon drops angelic halo.
Rare truth and untouched wisdom were  just too pure for reality.

It would take the hallucinations of a thousand truth serums for us to conceive thier virtue.

*Gene