I keep flipping through
photo albums,
smiling fondly at pictures
of me taking my first steps,
playing in delight,
holding hands
once in a while.
I keep flipping and they seem
to come to life;
the colors glaring,
the rush of the sounds
and smell
embrace me for comfort,
it seems like yesterday
I stood there,
smiling a toothy smile,
thinking this was the best day
of my life.
It feels good to flip through
photo albums,
they never fray and serve
to remind.

It will be alright.

The only worthy qualifier
is hope,
everything else
in transient progression,
infinitevly split,
apropos.

There is a transient moment
most profound
and necessary.

It is that line
which borders the sky
and the water,
the umimaginary,
factual,
tangible edge
of reality and perception,
past and future,
mirror and reflection,
which develops insight.

A transient, effervescent moment,
of delight.

It is in in stillness
that chaos loomed,
reaching for the edges
in varying degrees,
mounting that peak
of every climbing emotion,
in stillness,
it is like streaks
of the most glaring hues,
subdued; weakened,
uncouth.
Do not be fooled
by the stillness.

The flower dripped red
to the crusted ground
shed its wings
and broke to death
crumbled
to not be found
while the sky howled
turned green with rage
and cast a hue so gory
that the little humans
who crawled didn't seem
all that ugly.
They lashed their whips
and clanged their chain
growled in anger and pain,
howled the wounded
like the dog they sat next to
and licked the healing
scars they sheltered
from that ball of fire
which sputtered every hour
and darts of flame swept the sky
the human roamed naked
on their claws and feet,
they shed their clothes
when they faced the heat,
their face twisted in frowns,
they'd left their polyester shoes behind
they didn't need anymore
to cast the dye

Its like having a song stuck in your head
that plagues you at the oddest times,
when you forget,
when you forgive,
when you are about to lose your mind.
There are pieces which hollow out,
parts which blare like a horn,
and you whistle a tune,
to cover the blanks,
and keep repeating that song.
You twist the words,
to make it your own,
hum the stretch which lingers,
so much that you breathe in tune.
And you play it over and over
to comfort the oddest hour which peaks,
because nothing really,
is as comforting,
as certainty.
Even that of an annoying song.

Let me grab that blanket
to wrap around ourselves,
a pillow for the head
and feet,
a bear to cuddle perhaps,
hold on, this needs to be done
properly!
I'll make a quick dash
pass those shoes,
bright by the wall,
to grab something to eat;
something easy, fast,
comforting and plenty,
that'll never make me
feel that pang;
go hungry.
Under, now! Hurry!
It is the perfect dark,
it is the perfect quiet,
to settle under the canvas
and fall into sleep.
Away now, from that cut,
crawl further up,
and their sounds will fade,
they'll even stop flashing lights,
and patting our walls
to pull us away.
Hold on tight, don't fear
they can't get to us anymore,
we have been here too long,
we have come in too deep,
see, that rent in our home
can't even be seen.
Let us sleep.