I know the contours of your face,

    time molded it like clay

      depreciated by blue moons,

your eyes are still deep pools

   of history's mysteries and grace,

lived a thousand deaths,

    exhaled many more intentions  

years have deemed you wise,

  yet, you never falter to inquire

       universal burning notions,

   exactly why your infectious smile  

        appears younger than

               springtime baby's breath

The irony of writing poetry,
  when life's a comic book...

The only cure for mood poisoning,
             is writing more poetry.

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

there's a picture perfect

   place in mind's presence

amidst an unraveling sunrise,

   where serenity is

   distinguished midst

     peaceful tranquility &

the essence of an expansive heart,

   scrawled 'pon clear azure skies

whilst blissed souls unfurl in poetry,

come, share a  hot cuppa grandeur's

       affirmation with me,

             as we relish sublime rapture

A swashbuckler
who sharpened
    his sword
upon unkind
     poetic words

Your lackadaisical
       apathy towards
    life's intention
        could melt the sun

Hopelessly entranced
      by the dance of poetry,
              and vice versa