I stand for nothing
But unrequited love and
Empty nostalgia.

Your pulse is the rhythm
by which I pace the melody of my life.

And in your silence,
A symphony arises.

The coalescence of our souls
Is an overture of timeless ethereality.

We are a composition so pure
That our every note is a hymn to celestial realms.

The impress of form 'neath a veil,
Her scars are but sediments of sentiments
Outlining without specificity the ebbs
Of her dark, internal reservoirs.

Scrolls of indiscernible braille,
Her slashed forearms convey
In archaic lexicon the innermost
Artistry of her sanguinary soul.

One finds within her labyrinthine mind
Innumerable subterranean recesses-
Balmy hollows carved of ashen loneliness-
With room for one and one alone.

À chacun son gout;
She traverses with ethereal placidity
The bounds of her self-erected walls,
Searching for nothing and everything

Dear, let your breath be
The gentle breeze which guides my
Tattered sails homeward.

A house is not a home
Until the storms it’s meant to keep out
Start within.

Brick and mortar, all erodes.
In every home, some broken memories,
Wedding rings and distant lovers.

Yellowed walls and hearts to match-
In every home, an illness.
We’re the disease.

Words unspoken hurt the most.
In every home, a heartache-
An ever-downward spiral.

Because it doesn’t matter,
Regardless of how hard we wish it did.
We fold our hands and say our graces,
But a better tomorrow never comes
Because tomorrow doesn’t wait
On us like we wait for it.

The soles of my shoes are worn,
And, tired as my footwear are the dreams
Which, being chased, wore these soles to dust.
I’ve run further and still travelled less
Than almost anyone I know.

But self-pity is the sloth of soul.
I refuse to cheat myself with
Empty platitudes and tautologies.
What I, and we, go through is not,
Cannot be, encompassed by the wrote.

We don’t climb trees to reach their heights.
We climb trees for the experience
Of having climbed, of having felt ourselves
Actively participating in and coalescing
With the world around us.

We find ourselves in relation to the infinite else.

Mouths are moving, words unheard.
I nod along and play my part.
Elsewhere I’m afloat at sea,
Hushed by waves and boundless stars.

I laugh at jokes and feign surprise,
Each as it’s required.
Elsewhere I’m atop a cliff,
Where land and stars coalesce, conspire.

Exchanging greetings, shaking hands,
I do as do I must.
Elsewhere I’m in front a fire,
Lover near as twigs combust.

I bear the weight of all the words,
From mouths so rarely closed.
Though elsewhere I’m at home, in bed,
Book agape and mind engrossed.

I only came for exercise,
To prove my social health.
And now it seems, the more I talk,
I lose touch with myself.