You are the poem that lives on
in all the bright white spaces of me;
the sparkle of snowstorms
in the first flakes drifting
the bleat of a yearling;
the first steps it takes
flowers in moonlight
clouds in the rain
a path to the forest
a mountain bell's clang
calling me home
petal scents on the breeze
white sails on oceans
and softer than these;
faint words on old paper
a gleam in an eye
a jet's silver message
scrawled on the sky;
for you are that radiance
gives me back to me.

My words are hymns that I paint for you,
Vespers chanting your sacred name;
Incense rises before your face-
And prayers I would say, for no other.

If your eyes were brown or green or blue,
I suppose it would be the same;
The eyes are what give a face it's grace-
But are never the same, in another.

Your eyes will still be my light, it's true
Whether the moon may wax or wane;
For in your eyes I see a trace
Of the one I would know, as lover.

There's nothing to say, nothing to do,
There's much to lose, and nothing to gain;
But deep inside there remains a place-
Just for you, that I keep under cover.

Love's cups are all around,
Half-full, half-empty, overturned or forgotten
Nothing can be as toxic, as overpowering
As unforgettable and remorseful, all at once.

Drink at your own despair, drink to drown the here and now
Be born away, a willing victim, and drink:
Drink up until your cup is drained away
And then only dream, of other cups and days;
Love will never come to stay.

The coals smoldered
With obsidian flakes,
To reflect sky or ocean there.
The heat was tropical;
An abeyance denied
To all who'd arrived there.

Earthquakes simmered
Along the meridians,
While smoke floated free:
Released from it's *******,
It drifted to where
You wanted to be.

Nicely wrapped gestures,
Who do they fool?
We all ate of the apple
And evil finds its double
Every calendar day;
We would all save ourselves
And sacrifice the neighbors.

Nice gestures;
How thoughtful we would be
If that were the whole of us?
But we always keep one hand
Behind our back,
Half the antidote we withhold:
The half that could save our humanity.

The lathe of heaven's spinning, spinning
Now the web of time beginning,
Time the holder of the many secrets
We must someday learn;
Time the hearth where lie the days
The universe will slowly burn.

Life springs up; it's breathing, breathing
And the web of life is weaving,
Life revolves through many stages
And no one foretells the whole;
Life the mold in which we pour
The essence, turns into the soul.

His voice had the strangely broken timbre of a child,
Of too many souls, wandering lost in his throat
Too many hands grasping onto his for help-
I knew we couldn't last.

He had psychedelically tinted neurons
Well concealed within a brave countenance of smiling canvas
He had a magnetic core, of hot iron and paper mache
He slung words together like magic hash

I'm still haunted, in love with all the words;
There are thousands of phrases to fall for,
Before the world closes up shop forever-
But today, I wish for him only peace.