Today comes around all too soon
dragging yesterdays in its wake
and this present moment is full
brimmed to the top with love-
small sacraments in each breath
the glint of Sun on a dying leaf
transformation from death to life
life to death, and everything betwixt
today and tomorrow is all there is-
to be lived and loved for eternity.

My perfect sky is like the eyes of a old, wise man,
With a pale blue outline that deepens as one looks more to the center.
It has puffs of whites where one is left wondering what is behind them
Puffs of white that make you wonder if there is more to them than just their color.
My perfect sky demands to be looked into.
My perfect sky is beautiful.

In my heart there's
a place where you linger.
Soft shoulders where
I go to cry .

There's a crack in a
dark shuttered window.
And a tree where the
Nightingales die.

A sliver of melting twilight
Falls down on a meadow of green
My heart wants to
drown in your pure light.
In a place where
true loves never been.

You fade in a darkened barroom.
Where men go to die of the blues
I bring you two dozen teardrops
To pour on your soul to bloom.

I will light up your faded parlors
If you look you will see me there.
I will be wearing a coat of forever
A rose growing wild in my hair

So carry me down to your rivers
let me bathe in the pools of your sighs.
Here's my heart here's my soul
there for you now.
Forever until all time dies.

This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.