What loss would it be?
What cost would it take?
To borrow such wings,
To fly to the King?

Follow his lead,
To hear him teach,
To know what it means,
To believe in the Dream.

Watch him dance in the grass,
Drinking from heaven's glass,
Singing,
"Free at Last... Free at Last..."

My voice yearns to speak

Only when it's incapable of doing so

The soul of a writer is as tormented as the clash of tides in the sea.
There is an ongoing battle between what is right and what is wrong.
The writer's mind experiences an unexplainable turmoil of raging emotions.
There is no escape from the cages that surround the heart except for writing... writing till the words bleed with truth.
Till the colour of the ink becomes the colour of their soul.

You are the words I speak
The pause in between
Where I linger for a while

You are the thoughts I seek
The inspiration from within
Where I submerge denial

You are my heartbeat at its peak
The blood rush through ravine
Where all is cleansed of vile

You are the irrationality I tweak
The insanity that was forseen
Where I lose myself and smile

You are the glow that leaks
The inner beauty that they all mean
Where it paints all I see mile by mile

Nothing makes my day,
The way a yellow lightning bolt
On the top right of this page does.

any word
she sent her roots into my spring
it took sweat and days of work
to cut her down

for me to ***** out
of her limbs
take her naked winter
around

to the side of the river
overlooking the valley below
many days of toiling sweat
to work and tame her

split her hew and splice her
into my roof my walls my shelter
place her pieces as rafters to hold the
cold out the rain at bay

she never cried, nor protested
I felt like I was ****** nature.
She made me home.

Hundreds of thousands of years from now
I hope they’ll find my bones
Cradled in the womb of this earth
And the archeologists- as careful as midwives
Would scoop me up, brush me off
And deliver me from the dust
Then when they softly blow off the rest of the soil from my skeleton
Ever so softly for a better look at what I used to be
They’ll see my sandy frame and they’ll **** their heads to the side
In wonder when they notice two sets of bones
Yours gingerly entangled with mine
And as they pick up the pieces of us
That used to be we
They can’t tell them apart, which parts were mine
And which parts you lent to me.

it's just a matter of time
that their heads will hang
and beautiful red color
stares to the ground
untill they fall down
however i have enjoyed
the power of a flower
your beauty of time