Walking down a hall of splendor,
simplicity smiles from the edges fragilely.
My eyes are enchanted by empty hearts,
gliding to transform their fates,
aflame in all their need.

Closing in are hands from years
falling through the comforts, I know nothing of.
Quickly clouding my field of vision,
I see what I cannot dream of ever promising
in any sound of love.

Fires burn and invitingly wake me
to stand visible to all aching hearts.
Yet I cannot see what they seek to win.
Until, I find I am burning in these halls of splendor
crying with no beginning and no end.

I set out to write all that I am
and found in time I had penned a tale
that left footprints on the souls
of those who had looked into the flickering fire
of my heart, thinking they knew me well.

In my ways this pen
has always found a reason
to find itself in between
my hands.

Sometimes I take the time
to ask if this is it,
when truth rushes in
to fill my spirit as ink swirls
upon my skin.

I am not afraid of storms that breathe
into this poetry I write,
because all its winds lead me
to those places,
where I can feel.

Does a constant need
bring excitement
leaving us sailing away on songs
lying at the bottom of our hearts?
Is this the place
we roam?

A place where memories keep hoping
we will let them in
as they surround the years
rising to sing in a key
our voices never meant to sing again.

Do not tell me I break the rules
when I try and turn
the wheel of fate.
You know I will always be the one,
trying to fill the empty air
with song.

But tell me,
how does one close up emptiness
when it’s been there so long
even the world
thinks it’s part of the air
they breathe?

In my ways this pen wakes me,
gives me back my heart.
Delighted,
I find myself wondering
if I should sign my name,
or pour this emptiness I filled,
back into my pen
and part.

My heart pretended
you were a sound
I could drink
when I went searching
for golden lines full of surprise.
When I walked towards you,
my ears tasted the beat of the earth
and it began to turn
in reverse.

Ringing clear were hundreds of memories
I had kissed freely,
known as all the things you did.
Then in came the rushing sea
crashing into my mind
with waves of everything
you have ever said.

Therefore, I waited by a tree
that had shown its shadow
as being all that I could ever need.
However,
when I looked inside myself,
I found my heart
cold and bare.

A sight I have now become
but there is one thing I surely know.
I could never push aside
the sound of you I drink
from all these golden lines.
My ears will walk
towards you and taste
this beat
until I make you mine.

Unfilled dreams visit me
and I pretend
thundering pain does not touch my soul
when I can't hear you say,
“I love you”
before I lay me down to sleep.
Still, I wonder
if I called out on the coldest night
would I hear nothing
but silence
inside the dreams
I keep.  

In the morning hours
I write your name
in the air
with a hand of power,
creating an image
of  love's fire
that can never be lost
in thought.  
A delightful understanding
becomes a sensation of living
with the eyes of my heart
wrapped around the words
I have sought.

My mind sings our story
even when I am alone.
It shouts
from an ocean
of heaven
with a tune swinging  
to the countless beat
of our future need.
It paints our past
with long strokes of feeling
outside of  all the years
that were hidden
by a shadow's greed.

Here I stand as I am
with an invitation
circling my heart
creating a place
for you to be
when time hands me leave
to love you
with every breath
I breathe.  
Although, I may not hear the words
from your lips
the eyes of my heart
hear you speak
with ears........
that see.

A collaboration between Neva Flores and Mark Albert http://hellopoetry.com/-mark-albert/ and of Writers Cafe  http://www.writerscafe.org/Insomnius

I paint pictures in my mind with your smile and your voice,
Always hungering and wondering what you paint in yours.
I have a feeling that your thoughts beckon my own,
turn my resolve into a burning  liquid even the sun has to adore.

When the Sun has gone, and thoughts turn to sleep,
this man dreams in colors drowning me in the sea of your woman's heart.
Still, here I am crying out in a voice full of fight afraid to look into your eyes
as my heart could be destroyed, my world torn apart.

I lay still trying to obey the face of time, to let go soothing trickles of reassurance
in shimmering beams given from the Moon.
While we both use words when our eyes are not closed, mine are complex
and yours easy to hold..dropped from different hearts, yet in tune.

It is enough, holding this dream for now. With eyes, hands, and hearts unfurling,
slowly opening through barriers erected from the destruction past.
I believe in these two hearts that are beating as they write about love differently.
Today I will take down those barriers, just don't enter too fast.


© 2012 Neva Flores and  Mark Albert

From among dreams that come to shine and be mirrored
outside of our sleep,
we find a sea of life inside a flawless silence.
Without thought,
we cherish the intoxication
putting our lives in a state of perfect balance.

A first kiss can grab your heart
and leave it beating faster
than sand flows in the hourglass of time.
Or, it can cast a shadow on everything
that is required
when you find yourself asking,
what is the beat I hear in my mind?

The brightest feathers are dismissed by memories
of lines once wrote
about the image of the moon.
For the first time we dared to dream
about more than a jagged rhythm
never succumbing
to finding a new tune.

We find we do not care if we are bathed
in laughter or neglect
as long as we are next to one another
in a portrait where we smile.
We will still dance inside our words of love,
smooth as glass for miles and miles.

Closer and closer the trueness of our hearts
becomes visible to all Heaven and Earth
here below
with gravity held only as a slave.
A slave with tears that wash away any doubt
that what goes up
must come down right away.

There is a massive distance
between her smile and tears
when she writes about the rain.
Because her faded dreams
put her mind at ease
behind the places
where she stands
in pain.

Sitting in the garden
where one finds love
in those eyes
that speak of alone.
She writes lines
which intrigue mysteriously.
You can see her words dance
where she's walked,
when dawn breaks
across the trees.

The inner deepness of her words
hold on to each cloud,
crying out to the depths
of our bones.  
They tell us our worst hours
contain the time outside
of her faded dreams
and that they too.....
will soon be gone.

When she writes about the rain
we smile
behind the places
where we stood in pain.  
You can see her words dance
where she's walked,
knowing......
they never speak
in vain.

Have you ever found yourself  quivering
outside of lines
stained
by what you thought was a love story?
Wondering
if you will be swallowed whole
by the window you sit and stare out,
in love's well meaning glory.

Beneath passion  blowing through the door
visiting your mind
like those little things
filled with a warmth
you have wanted
for so long.
Often, you find life
is at its happiest inside your dreams,
where nothing's wrong.

Sometimes in the middle of the night  
you want to be
a never-ending flow of love
smiling at the hands
on the Clock of Emptiness,
stuck in place.  
However, time melts into years
until starlight becomes well versed
at hiding the shadow of tears
on your face.

My senses wonder how to find peace
among company not familiar
with the lightest touch.  
Even though I have written down
everything of which I dream.  
My words are not heralded
by the new age the same
because a pebble
means more to them
than a beautiful sunset's beams.

The youngest
seem to rise inside the walls
with no names,
disguised as sparkling diamonds
known as hope.  
I must beware of their winds
as they can overwhelm
the very air I cradle and for which I fight.  
Or, I may find my Heaven
has become absent
and that I have given up everything
I know to be right.

I could look straight through the glass
and hear the strangest voices ever
from my reality.  
And, I would want to know
what lies at the bottom,  
posing as flowers for my hair.
Still, I find there are wrinkles in my climate
painted on the panes of life,
numbed by “I don't care”.

If I tried to escape or perhaps fight
for what I believe,
would I be considered shallow?  
Could I still feel   the appeal of peace
or would I want to cover my heart in sleep?  
So, I watch the schemes
of those not familiar with the lightest touch
then watch them drink the wine
of what they reap.