My words are petals that were
      blackened silk...

But when they feel they were diluted
     white illusions

                                      of nothingness.....

But while the rose has a scent of imagery it
        will have an aroma of creation...

Though all conception is birthed, we all die..
             and with it no words escape only breath....

I have drowned
a thousand times
in my dreams
but I’ve only seen
the sandy beaches
of the sea
once.

Feet freed from shoes
that were heavy with
all the wetness
they could sponge up
I let my toes sink in
rubbing sand between them
barely moving or breathing.
I felt the push and pull
of the primordial tides

One step in,
the water covered my shins.
Another two steps
equaled twelve more inches.
Three more steps
and I was waist high
ready to let go and dive.
Five more, then up to six
and I could feel
the strength of it.

Till, it was in my nose.
Eyes closed
I felt the undertow
pulling me in deep
as if it longed to keep
the body of me.

A few more steps,
I braced myself,
but someone else
pulled me back
from the eternal black.
I was not
happy about that.
I knew my kin
waited within
the dark murky depths
where something wild crept,
but I just left.

Such a fine affair indeed.
Anyone can see,
that hidden in the grays and white
there is a shining light.
You are a form to be treasured
and I am pretty sure
that if the camera could give you words.
It would whisper

"I love you more than I can picture."

If it is a race, then the pace of one set of clouds out does the ones that float above lazily. Smokey dragons cut across Odin’s one good godly eye. The night pursues its cold cool wind muse,
and I cannot lose, because I use this muse so well. I walk the building corner to brick corner unwilling to enter the unyielding nightmare hallways. I do not wish to walk in the white hollow echo chambers, alone and uninspired while the night spirals in lunar delight. I postpone it as long as I can, walking the yellow concrete corners like they are tight high wire. I swerve and struggle to maintain my perfect position, for fear of falling into the black top lava pit. The inside world waits for me like a ravenous beast. Please oh please do not force me to leave the light breeze that brushes my skin gently. Glass and metal doors see me swallowed whole. I did not want to go but now I know this white washed world will be my graveyard fantasy. The red buds on the tree beckon me, but I cannot go back out. The musical clank of metal clips that hang the flags summons me beyond the security doors with their dangerous whipping movements, but I am not allow to explore such freedom. The strangers of varying degrees, shapes, weights, skin tints, hair, and teeth beckons me to question their history. I cannot go out there to the fantastic. No that is a lie. I could if I tried, but I chose to hide in a secure hourly wage paid life. I could leave and let my wanderlust take me where it will. I could go back to Pleasantville, Champaign, Williamsville, Pontiac, Mt. Vernon, and Danville, then go see places I have never been. I could give in to the seductive siren call of landscapes unseen, sounds unheard, and strangers not yet met. Instead I sign my time sheet, walk and repeat, securing nothing. I drive home tired and come back and repeat that as well. I accept the mundane. It is a part of the price I pay for a slice of peace.

you're eyes are a hurricane in the distance waiting to strike
like a fierce gail force wind blowing in my face
knocking me on my ***

I am a fool,
prince or pauper
standing proper
in time.

I remember my place
how this current season tastes,
sounds, and feels
but forget how it will
end.

In spring I think
The flowers will bloom
eternally.
It never occurs to me
that Summer will be
right around the corner.

In summer I expect to sweat
get a buzz cut because
I hate hot hair
not thinking
time’s shrinking
will see me sinking in
to summers end
where fall begins.

Fall finds me believing
I will see leaves fleeing
Still falling from bare trees
that sit squarely
before me
though obviously empty.

Winter is a desert.
Nothing warm;
Just cold storms
that make me shiver
forgetting the past
and the future.
I only feel the frigid present.

I never think about or see
the seasonal transitioning.
I only know the now.

I do not enjoy
your anesthetized
clean pictures
of the Victorian past
with your fantasies
about nobility
and high society.

The truth is *****.
The people were poor,
and the poetry spoke truth.

It did not cover up such pains,
but placed them on display
in word play
to say,
“We are human and we are here.”

above the naked sea,
the wind’s blue
castles
raise their
drawbridges
of air.

a perfect time
to change the world
explore exotic places
do something crazy
surprise people
achieve the things your insanity creates