The glass beneath my feet,
I walk along this path
Narrow and treacherous
The blades almost glass
I walk barefoot non-the-less.
Seeking sand between my toes
And sun on my back.

This grass could be worse
Slicing my hills atop the jagged rocks
Bleeding until my heart stops.

I need to find my rest
As the moon climbs high in the sky
And the sun plummets to the abyss
Must I seek out a cave or forest canopy?
Beyond the borders of my four foot path
I cannot see
A curtain of darkness shrouds both sides

There once was a world outside this path
I know there must be another direction than the path I walk.
One of beauty and tenderness
But I have seen neither beauty nor tenderness
And my mussels have began to ach
And honestly, I fear the rest for I might not wake

I once came upon this flower
The stem stood tall and the bloom grew red and blue.
Beauty grew from this path
And I picked this flower
Because I must have this beauty with me,
In the instant, the roots left the ground
The flower wilted to a dull black and crumbled in my hand

A world that must remain beyond the darkness
Beyond my path
Has been picked and wilted
And left blindness among people

I now stagger along this four-foot wide path
Missing most the autumn leaves
That never falls to my path.
The glistening snow
Which has never been underfoot,
The summer springs
That I have not swam to cool my body.

The seclusion however
Doesn’t bring a thorn to my heart
My fellow’s destruction
Is greater than my destruction of beauty
More tortures than the sight of this path
They are the ones who have picked the world from my sight
Therefore, which situation is better?
Ones who see the horrors
Or the one who believes it doesn't exist?

Do you know what it’s like to love someone so far away?
He writes in his letter.
It’s like an endless ocean separating you from me, and I can’t swim.
There is a craving deep inside; I cannot feed its hunger.
Only half of a life is contained in my soul.
So far away is the other half,
Far past the echoes
Down the stream past the point where sight has no use, he writes.
The man lays his head on the table and weeps, blotching some of the ink of the letter.
It’s so hard sometimes to recall you from my memory.
To see you sitting across from me having your coffee or,
Just to recall your scent, because these days everything reminds me of you
And it all blurs into that imperfect image of you that my mind has created.
My hands shake and my body trembles.
When will you return?
Love you always.
The man sits back in his chair and lets the pen fall from his hand.
He folds the letter and places it in an envelope and seals it with wax.
The man walks the road to the post
And returns home to wait until she returns.

one dandelion in the sun
ghost white shell turned to red as the
fire god sets
tomorrow the wind will blow the seeds away
so one dandelion becomes many.
But until then that barren stem shall stand until it
eventually withers and is over taken by the surroundings
its grace lost amongst the blue-grass
never to see its offspring, and stand in a field
turned yellow not by the sun
but the vigor of youthfulness.
One dandelion in the sun
Not knowing what tomorrow brings,
But enthralled to see the setting sun.