In five years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
Exactly where I am now,
yet in a different place.

I'll always choose the third door
and probability will be on my side.

In ten years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
With so much progress,
and nothing to show it.

I'll always argue for my opinion
and there will be a chance I'm right.

In twenty-five years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
Maybe I'll have company,
but I could be alone.

I'll always make direct eye contact
with hope I don't look scared of you.

In fifty years I will
be half-way to the horizon.
And I will be able to stop.

Lo! On the wing of heavy gales,
Through the boundless arch of the sky he sails,
Unspeaking, rapid, immensely strong,
His silent shadow is borne along
By his steeds of fog and cloud and hail,
The earth does shake and the skies do wail.

The skies darken fast, and the golden blaze
Of the sun is quenched in a lurid haze,
Then black, a black of a starless night
When clouds descend and block all light.
I stand, I wait, I hold no fear,
My body poised and my mind is clear.

He is come! He is come! Do ye not behold
His ample robes on the wind unrolled?
How his huge and writhing arms are bent,
To clasp the zone of the firmament,
And fold at length, in their dark embrace,
From mountain to mountain the visible space.

And he sends through the shade a funeral ray—
A glare that is neither night nor day,
A beam that touches, with hues of death,
The clouds above and the earth beneath.
And with the glare comes a heart-wrenching cry,
Solemn, grave and joy deprived.

And with the cry falls fast the tears,
Lashing, bitter, punishing, drear.
His tears the lashing rain that breaks
In torrents away from the airy lakes,
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground,
And shedding a nameless horror round.

Darker—still darker! The whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air:
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
His agony, high up in the thunder cloud!
A whirling ocean that fills the wall
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all!

I stand, braced ‘gainst his icy breath
And speak, my voice strong – I’ve no fear of death.
“Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh,
I know thy breath in the burning sky!
Calm thy storm, I know thy pain!
I too lost my lover – my heart was enchained!”

“Thy agony is clear, but why dost thou cry?
For can ye not see that before you ‘tis I?
I’ve roamed o’er hill, mountain, valley and glen –
I have searched for too long to lose thee again!
My love! Reach down to the earth and clasp me securely
And united together forever we’ll be!”

Isn't is amazing how there are
a finite number of words,
that try to describe my entire
existence.
They flow from my hands
like honey across computer keys.
My life in forty-seven lines.

It, to me, is inconceivable that
a text box can contain a person,
like a frame might contain a photo.
So those words
might have flown from my fingers,
but they are not me.

I am in my work.
Puzzles solved and projects planned,
each one has a small part of my
self within it's ink-stained pages.
My poetry and photography
represents me far better
than forty-seven lines.

If a university turns me away
based on a personal statement,
I would not be ashamed.
After all, those forty-seven lines
are not my words.
They belong to convention.
'Interpersonal skills' and
'self-confidence'.

I know those words are not me,
although I'll write them
because I know they are what
you want to
see.

Buzzing, itching, crowded mess.

Pounding, pounding, in my head.

Nothing matters, not anymore.

It never did, never at all.

Slowly sinking, drowning, cold.

I think I'm starting to lose my hold.

My grip on reality is wearing thin.

It's time I let the demons in.

streams of the stars
golden leaves
sinking in the fading light
dappled shadows
where the light drowns
its stones and unwraps
the sweetness of the night.

Jolted awake,
Is that banging
in my ears
inside my head,
or out?
It's at the door,
banging so hard
and fast.

I stride through
the darkness
to my sister's room.
A hand on her
shoulder and
her name.
It does not
wake
her.

Panic builds and
the banging,
it's inside and out.
She won't
wake
up, please.

Empty
Nitrous Oxide
and spirit bottles
litter my
sight.
Please, wake
up.
Please, before
our door
caves
in.

Saturation,
no space left in my mind.
So many questions and
so much emotion
that I can't think.
All the things that I used to
see as simple tasks or
thoughts won't link.
No coherence
in my brain. Juxtaposition,
of ideas leads my actions
to dissonance.
Enjambment in
every movement that I make.