A trek, down the air filled with the pour of rain,
A stumble upon a carcass, empty and reminding
This land that bears no water, replenished for good thought
A car passes and leaves, the illumination from the fogged lights
Dims out and dies, left alone with a jacket for protection.

Down the road, the ending growing far,
The rain starts to clear, and cracks of thunder take it's place
The flash of lightning and the rising of flames,
Put out by the returning drops of water.

Every time the lightning whips the sky,
The crack of the thunder shakes and wonders the watchers,
As the time slows with every crack of the whip.
The end seems near, but grows only farther,
Where flames and water, lightning and thunder
Gather to dance

One poet to another,
“Your writing is great, what’s your inspiration?”
And the one replies.

“The earth. The sky, the clouds and the moon.
The summer, the fall, the winter and spring.
Everything around me is a picture,
and my job is to paint them through words.
My inspiration? the question is what’s not to inspire.”

The other replies.
“What’s not to inspire? The ****** and the crimes,
The blind, the sick and the sad.
The homeless, the lost and the wicked.
Are those inspiration?” asked the poet.

“The ****** and the crimes are another picture,
A poem is a way to express the grief and sadness in the world and as a result.
Everything is inspiration. It’s the job of a poet, to turn them into words.”

Walking down the dim-lit path
Whistling to Beethoven’s Fourteenth Sonata,
With admiration to the moonlight path,
Littered with the bodies of drunken old men,
The crunch of the ice, the snow clinging to the boot,
The fires in trash cans, the scrounging for money

The rot of alcohol and filth pollutes the air,
Under the bridge, a most depressing place.
This gathering of unwelcome guests, a man without a place.

Out of the bridge, shows the moon once again,
With tears falling from its gentle craters.
As it falls to the ground, a gem shows its landing.
A gem that when gazed into, one can only see oneself,
Littered on the street, a drunken old man.

A hopeless romantic,
Armed with rose in hand,
A humble appearance in a sappy film.

A thorny stem, the hand begins to bleed
Red, the color of passion,
The color of anger and love.

The stem is green, that paints red
With the liquid passion leaking out of the hand
At the bottom, the passion falls and pools at the feet.

The heart poured onto this symbol of romance,
A dark twist to a classic fate,
Carrying it forward, the romantic trips,
And the white rose falls, and loses its purity.

The pedals fall, one by one.
Like beauty and the beast, the story was done.

A tired face, exhausted by the stress of days
A stomach empty from the absence of activity,
A mind blank from the blistering sun.

A crawling arm, dragging body against the dirt
The illusion of water approaches and fades
Down a tunnel that spins, the crows laugh
and point, the body limp, dragging across that earth.

A litter of bones, of animal and sapiens,
The remains of a fallen building, a clock tower
That still chimes its twenty-fifith hour.