most days
I am overwhelmed
by the need to talk to you,
to feel your name drip from my
mouth.

a touch of some humility may put you in your place
reveal the inconsistencies you thought you could erase
the kind of metamorphosis that colors on your skin
and turns it into something rather gossamer to spin

there  cannot be another you and nothing can compare
you're free to weave a web of what you want, as you so dare
the only thing that will affect the qualities you keep
is what you store inside your head from everything you see

the doors you close and open up are actually your eyes
the things you see make up the tree that either lives or dies
but this is taking far too long, perhaps I've said too much
yet isn't that the very thing that begs the human *touch

Grant me a corner
in which to cry;
through joyous eyes
I saw my son born,
through bleeding eyes
I watched him die.
Grant me a corner
in which to cry.

Permit me a quiet place;
let tender fingers
sew together
a wounded heart,
which through
my son's death,
has been torn apart.
Permit me
a healing place.

Allow me a soft bed
on which to rest;
let someone soothe
my aching brow;
keep the memory
of my first born son,
not amidst the dry reeds
or dull souls,
but amongst the best.
Allow me a bed
on which to rest.