There are few absolutes. Even less that speak as true, To the golden hues of bygone ages Or savage whirlpools of our youth. We were born and we shall die Shackled to these certainties Eternal pirouettes of life. Yet in the doubt we are alive, A parable of the possible, The probable or the just might. Existence in the absence Between two points of light. In the uncertain we survive, A ripple in the darkness, A dream within the night.
I want my writing To be profound A work of art you just Want to hang on your wall And when you look at it Day in and out The words will seep Back through your skin And melt in your heart And suddenly, you feel Like someone you've never met Knows you better than Your closest companions And somehow that's okay Because now you know You've never been alone.
I've finished the first draft of my novel. What I want most is to make an impact on those who read it and to know that my words matter.
The way he undresses, day's weight s l i d i n g off his skin, bare and unburdened, each fold whispers freedom's touch, heat stirs deep, a quiet flame.
Since I'm out drinking some wine and enjoying myself thought I'd share this.
A star is born and another fades Their incandescence mocks any tears that cascade Galaxies collide, their chaos resplendent, Life is but a mere blip in their existence Meteors crash and civilizations ebb and fail What good are my tears On a cosmic scale? How ephemeral are my memories Compared to all of eternity?