Oak trees mount mossy slopes… graphing the thin-shrub, need not much light.
Fallen comrades stretch out up the valley, their armor soaked with dew-mist and stuck leaves.
Dry foliage rings around their plinth, daubing their place in the social order.
Dark shades cut short, amalgamating a bond between what is and what can be…

Willow wood leans forward, observing last year’s crop… its focus grounded by fleecing strands.
Bunches shivering in the cold wind, undulate neighbors to tripping the light fantastic.
A swaddling creek serves both life and death, kissing the feet of giants above.
The water flows white off the human path, babbling past a lean-to, set on the lea’s bottom.

Flaxen wood guards the gate of Stygian timber, dark as its cousins ‘round.
The house sitting with the wood, dormant in its lot, thinks nothing of the past.
The forest soon to sleep, they Shiloh* amongst themselves… Next to the graves of the first to go.

We are the *******, we are the spicks.
We are the kykes, we are the hicks.
We're the one's who wait our turn,
To read the books you wish to burn.

We are the honkies, the mussies with guns.
We are the beaten, the poor and the dumb.
We see the horrors, the mistrust and the hate.
We are the people, the ones who relate.

We are the chinks, the bindis, the *****.
We are the losers, the mixed and the muts.
We are alone, left to fight.
We are the ones crying at night.

We are the triggers, set on the gun.
We are the fighters, refusing to run.
We see the world through darkened glass.
We see each other as mutants to pass.

If only we learn, it could be done...
We are all different, but we are all one.

He lazily wonders, "would it be best,
to manifest,
this array as a poem?"...

Dribbling, drabbling, splishing and splashing,
Summer's scorn whirls unlashing.
Gutter strikes throng cluttered pipes,
filled to burst before crashing.

Concrete delta, chizzled from steel,
devouring, steadily, it's only meal.
Here to stay, but ready to leave,
they swifly pass throughout their eve.

Porch roof wet, drip by the drop,
along the guardian's shielded top.
The sky yields for the setting sun,
but in the night, the bombers run.

Booming strikes desparetely fight
to enter the darkness, and win back the light.
So many things, all the same,
block mountains, laying their claim.

Slicing into theatrical waves,
luck guides as a strider braves.
Running as well, the Tempest to test...
both he and the storm, the other one craves.

Sitting back in his safe little home,
the boy becomes worried,
of becoming too grown.

"How to put into words..."
"This moment may never be seen again."
"Almost gone... lost to the birds..."
"Holding on between a thought and a pen."

The change in your pocket,
    Comes and goes with the ebbing tide.
Drawn by the Moon, She circles the Earth,
    Giving equally, but not the same.

Taken as much as it's given,
    But received by only a few.
How it balances out in the end,
    A beautiful symphony of noise, love and hate.

The change in your pocket,
    Tells a story that none can hear.

I met an old friend today.
      We embraced with a force that lives within.
The realest moment of my life is in his warmth;
sobbing like life was dead until this moment.

'How can you be so sure God exists?' I ask through the tears
"He's holding us together right now,
nothing on Earth can bind so tight and feel so free."

'I don't know how I can breath without your scent.
I don't think I can repay what was lent."

"You will be for me,
    you will be my tree."

'How is this possible? You planted my seed,
     Tended to my roots, so I may be freed.'

"They were tended with that which makes man great,
     they were tended not by me, but by fate."

'Don't you lie to me,
     Don't have me sip that mortal tea.'

"Where do you think we are?
     Lost.
          But never afar."

"Hold me as you would,
     But wake up,
          You should."

The day to day operations
strung together with useless ventures
are immaterial to the happiest man alive,
who waits to silence nobody,
but the doubt in his own mind

Pushing the door open, it starts off weighing the world.
Pulled, together, by the powers to be.
Pulled, apart, by the powers, can't see.
The gate holding back the answers
is only accessed from inside

What is not yet known
takes some time... to be revealed...
not doing 'that,' itself, because magic only happens
when the sorcerer becomes
the learned student

Mistakes are miracles in disguise:
seen from the top, as they are,
but reeled from the bottom, as broken dreams

Silky white perfection
     Glistens as one from afar,
widening its gaze into countless outward eyes;
     Sinking back through their past lives...
flying like a kite, cut through its wing.
    His shadow, blends with his brothers'
Hiding spots, not to spoil the surprise

It's anyone's guess as to where he did lay
    Waiting patiently to die.
But, as contentment is birthed into a different set of eyes,
     His presence blows not away
But  sticks...
     Like the spider Web, reaching out to touch her face
He is not scared by the gentle breeze

Ignoring Earth's carriers, they silence God, himself.
     And let Man be.
a girl
    Knowing nothing of what she sees.
Afraid to step back
    And lose her new place
Frozen in time, until all eyes close...