the comforting warmth of the morning sun,
like I had known it from the days of yesteryears.
the familiar scent of dew-kissed grass,
a fresh aroma that brought forth the tide of gratitude laden tears.

I had foreseen the day to be just as before...
I had planned to play out my morning as I had rehearsed.
but your message had foiled all that I thought I knew...
it brought about the smile that eternity had kept pursed.

your words were laced with the flowers of spring...
they set at ease the unapparent apprehension I've always kept.
they spoke of compliments meant only for the worthiest quills,
I've read them in disbelief as I think not of myself, an adept...

truly you are one that's generous and so very kind.
for your words flew off the page and had struck home;
bearing the stoutest of hope and most selfless of wishes.
they had provided direction in these vague circles that I roam.

so now allow me to thank you dear poetess...
for drawing the sunrise clear into my view.
I shall revel and bask in its delightful rays...
because your words had painted today in the brightest hue...

i've been looking for poignant truths
that i can force into poetry
recently
things that will be like pebbles
into ponds of thought
concepts veiled in fact
overlooked ideas that i could
reconstruct my life
around
because poignant truths
are like raspberries
late in the season
rare sweet and sunny
only a few ever find them
i tried to scrape back the dust
and the rust
of my mind and
hoped to
discover that i had some
sort of enlightenment stored there
like pennies tucked away for
safe keeping
recently
but sometimes a glass is neither half empty
or half full

sometimes the curtains are just
blue

In my town
    The streets are paved
         With gold
              Because the rain
            Runs an infinitely unfinished race
        And the streets
   Are run thick with sky
       That swills above blocked drains
            And the street lamps
               Take a bathe in the puddles
                  And their lights
                       Unravel and swim
                     And sometimes
                  The wind gusts through
              And lacerates the
           Rivers of hoarded treasure
       So that our good fortune
           Is molten and fickle
             But somehow viscous
                  And the promises
                        Of our childhood
                            Wrinkle like
                               Aging skin

In my town
       The streets are paved with gold
           And so are the broken pieces
   Of their beer bottles.