Your poetry is like
Stockholm Syndrome,
I'll follow you 'til I die...

Let us run freely hand in hand
   in Elysian fields of resplendent grass,
where tranquil existence lies
      beyond skies of incertitude
         whence ambiguity doesn't rhyme,
and empathy's rapport  plays in the hearts
  of all those who cherish the melody of peace,
      swimming in rivers of abundant harmony
    and dance 'pon the ether of communion's serenity*

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right-doing, there is a field,
                                            I'll meet you there...."  Rumi

'Twas a cruel moon that night,
      beaming ineffectual it its
       commanding indifference,
   yet, its light was insignificant
      in the scheme of sunrise

Tell me the truth,

     if only in a whisper

of unassuming promises,

instincts have waned

    on many a dawning,

   of impromptu desperation

     neath longing's plaintive misery*


       tell me a lie, it'll still suffice,

        as midnight fast approaches mourning's daylight

You may not recognize me
     'til you hear the music playing,
  capriccio of a mellifluous heart
      dancing upon destiny's moons,
  speechless neath euphonical clouds'
              yearning euphoric poetry

Music written to
     the sound of rain,
patters of notes upon
    slick windowpanes                
mesmerizing a day
        of reminiscence,
when two hearts
    danced between drizzle

The healing powers of poetry

   cannot be overlooked, nor denied,

aspects of life's absurdities & wonder

unfurled in translatable surrender

juxtaposition of souls midst passages,

  written words of purged sentiments

sharing humanity's scripted similarities

        bled upon pages of deliverance