That was it
the **** bit
where love ends
where promises are broken
where kisses freeze
on cheeks or lips.

That was it
the tough bit
where cancer creeps
spider like
or slithers through limbs
as snakes through grass
and you die.

That was it
the hard bit
where suffering outweighs
the scales of prayers
and the child cries
for a loss
up the tall stairs.

That was it
the crucifying bit
the nails hammered in
the cross of flesh and bones
the heart plundered
for feelings and sense
the last farewell
no recompense.

After 12 midnight when everyone's asleep
That's your most conscious moment.

Morning:
Drunk on insecurities,
Busy putting up strong fronts and fake smiles.
Answering with slight twists whenever a personal question that might potentially break down your wall is asked.

Afternoon:
Weary from pretense but yet desperately holding on.
Having slight slip ups whenever no one is looking.

Night:
Walls crumple and demons are set free.
The mind is free from all restrains.


You begin to see things more clearly despite being in the dark.
But yet the demons which were also let loose continues to blind you each time you realize the stupidity of yourself.

Vicious cycle that can't be broken,
You broke yourself into pieces instead.

The mere idea of your person
is a tonic, potent enough to intoxicate.
And intoxicated I will be
as long as your words
roll of your lips
and ring in my ears.
It's hard to say
but it's easy to feel:
all I want is you
and all I need is a chance.

A connection made is a chance for it to fail,
and some thing never loving is better
than taking the chance of losing love.
I could not disagree with these people more.
Perhaps they have never met someone like you
and perhaps they will never.
Perhaps they have never been drunk
off lust
or perhaps they refuse to alter their
state of consciousness enough
to allow lust to manifest itself
into a physical ache.
More than mental yearning,
I can feel it in my gut;
pulsing and pounding,
feeling its way to every corner of my body.

Perhaps the brandy is actually what's intoxicating me;
for every glass I drink
the pulsing becomes quicker,
the pounding becomes harder
and the feeling reaches parts of my body
I didn't know could feel.

These routines are seeming endless. the fences round my mind are slowly growing ever-more defenseless. Where these thoughts are boldly mentioned I feel lost of all intention. An abundant sea of words and verbs to satisfy my senses. Where feelings return from the grave and reach for peaceful vengeance.


Through these written cryptic lines, i hope you seek to glean a meaning that revives a thought you thought benign, or an emotion you had lost and forgotten you could find. Compassion does elude us, and inaction makes delusions till we’re rejecting whats been proven, in a life rejecting movement.

Sixty Eight years of age
and he texts her puppy love
msgs six time a day,
in between phone calls.

long ago lovers,
high school, I think,
Facebook stumbled upon,
and the inky surprise,
that they have relearned to be,
a new shade of
a true blue tint of
the word,
devoted.

mushy is the heart that goes
soft to hard to soft,
soft by innocence, then
Pharaoh hardened by life, then,
softened by reflection,
mushyed by wisdom,
that came costly.

when relearning
the side effects of
discovering the words
that were left unsaid,
or even better,

spoke this time with
better understanding,
greater appreciation.

Now so better
After Aging Aching
in an oak cask
of finally, filly fully
fermented love.

I don't need inspiration
to clap for you,
but your confidence un-betrayed,
name omitted,
as one grandfather tips his hat to another,
all he can smiling say,

*******,
romantic rediscovery at 68,
I suspect is even better than the
first fumbled go around.

Along a winding meadow way
Circuitous and pebble strewn
Towards a brook and down a *****
As morning sun outshines the moon
An expectation clogs the air
And all about the flowers turn
To face a wave of tidal light
To catch ablaze but not to burn

A dusky fragrance lingers still
And gathers calm as mercury
In solemn spots beneath the boughs
It lies in perpetuity
The weaving breeze is powerless
And banished by the canopy
Abiding there a myriad
Of all of natures panoply

Drift along now deeper still
A clearing basks amid the shade
An isolated paradise
A lonely little woodland glade
Where early spring regains the lead
And ferns uncurl a welcome hand
The nettles bare their jagged teeth
And offer up a reprimand

A dragonfly takes up my path
And leads me into humid heat
She weaves amid the reaching grass
And safely guides my straying feet
Between the rocks and rabbit holes
That litter my vicinity
The creatures in my path retreat
All sensing my proximity

A fallen trunk now blocks my course
Like driftwood on the shoreline, beached
Its peeling bark is spiraling
And pale in the sunlight, bleached
Enfolded in its limbs I am
As if they shaped themselves to me
As though a plan of ages hatched
And formed a place for me to be

**