Faded tree figures loom near,
visible as a smear
on what used to be the Mona Lisa.

The great work of art
goes to waste
as its paint is fingered,
by each person,
like its some sort of photocopy,
covering the masterpiece
with old, dirt, and impurities
that are not naturally occurring on skin.

Leonardo da Vinci would be appalled
at our treatment of his gift,
made to be given to one person,
yet he loved it...
and gave it to us instead.
Now stare once again
at its poor condition.

Frost makes its way from beyond the azure blue, 
snow falls as fast as it will please, 
passing through a cold winter breeze.

The clouds shift to a form the world anew, 
never learning how to fly, 
white sparkles float down from the sky. 

I stare at the night sphere to search for what is true, 
pure ice shows how a person can be, 
as the winds wail in currents freely as the sea.

Untrodden silver cesspool, 
Darkened by bombshell blast, 
Riding in weathered abyss, 
Covered with killer cannon fodders past. 

Black battle went into starstruck night,   
All started to fall, but not all fast, 
Over tricky time they all did fight, 
With wind guiding bloodstained mast. 

Lovers light broke with rising sun, 
Gleefully gallivanting through hours passed, 
Tediously tiptoeing with hopes to run,  
Over red salty sea made infinitely vast.

The world continues spin
even when all noise ends.
Skipping like a broken record,
dancing to the same tune over
over over over.....

My pen flies to a realm
never spied by my eyes.
He flutters through the air
like a dolphin through a tide,
whisking up until gravity takes.
He cares not where he flows or
even where I am.
Perhaps he will be seen in New York,
possibly Istanbul.
He was once sighted in Moscow
before fluttering to China
to walk the Great Wall.
Currently, he is having the traditional
Earl Grey with Queen Elizabeth.
At the rate he moves,
I fear he'll run out of ink.

There he sits.
The moon is in the sky,
like clockwork.
His personality changed
from yesterday,
along with his clothes.
Tonight, he's draped in stars
and showing only a quarter
of his wonderful personality.
How humble he can be.
He's playing off the light
of the fireflies
like a violinist from a conductor.
Look at that...he's higher
than the shadow connected trees.
My old friend,
you have a flare for the dramatic.

The very second I put down my pen,
I began my process all over again.
I've been getting up at 7 o'clock (am).
Why?
Such a dangerous question.
If I were to wonder why
I comb my hair, I'd have the answer.
If I asked myself why eat meals
at 7:30, 12:00, and 5:00,
I'd have an answer.
But I don't know why I have answers.
Why do I care when I eat and
how presentable I appear?
I fear someday I'll wake up and
ask why I should wear pants, or
why even stand?
That day, I might crawl to the
front porch, and carry a
newspaper and slippers to the dog.