Today I saw him.
There but for the grace of God.
His jacket worn

He, in warm weather;
bundled up like it's freezing,
talking to himself.

I hear those voices.
I talk to them too some days.
I wandered in time.

City jail pads
are where they sent us to hide.
Just to be beat down.

I escaped that life.
Medicine and help was there.
I came to myself.

Social offenses,
An affront to guilty eyes.
Those voices plague them.

Wounded minds they are.
There but for the grace of God.
I just got lucky.

I love the way the colors smell
in the morning drenched with dew.
I hear the red birds song.
It's like I'm listening to you,
and you're telling me that every thing's okay,
and there's no need to worry,
because I'm going to find my way
someday.

Sometimes the sound my sorrow makes
is jagged cold upon my skin,
because I miss you and the time it takes
to return
from the dark place where I've been.

blows my patience all to hell
but only time will tell.

Yet nothing grows above you,
on that little spot of ground
where all my countless selfish tear drops fell.

You're memory still
won't shake this chill.

I taste the front door view we shared
even in the rain
It reminds me of your kisses
but the feeling's not the same.

Now I love that sharp pain on the right
that often wakes me up at night,
and reminds me
I might see you real soon
and then
we can make love on the moon.

Sometimes out here in the world
I have to shake you off
and bite my lip.
I can't let them see my soul unfurled
when you touch me on the inside
and I almost lose my grip.

I thought I heard you laugh last night
just before you let me fall asleep.
Pretty soon,you'll know that I can keep
all the promises I've made,
about the best plans that we've laid.
Oh baby I can't wait

but I still love the way the colors smell
in the morning drenched with dew
and when I hear the Redbirds song
I feel like I'm listening to you
You tell me everything is going to be okay,

and another day
is just another day.

Thank you for the golden bridge
upon which to retreat.
Thank you for the sacrilege
that makes me incomplete.

Make way for peace and better days;
find solace in the fact
that you can't ever change your ways;
or the judgement that you lacked.

Your chemical imbalance wreaks
havoc on your life's desire.
The familiar voice begins to speak
when the synapses commence to fire.

Let the madness muse ever be
the source of your inspiration
for your self indulgent poetry
and witty penned frustration.

In the cobwebbed corridors of thought,
or the murky depths of pain,
the answers you've forever sought,
questions they will er'r remain.

Let the four line stanzas roll
for all the patches on my soul
Muse I bid you to begin
to gently move the mind and pen.

Imprisoned in this cage of rhyme,
I slowly heal over time,
Although events can take their toll
they sew patches on my soul.

So much more than hideous dreams;
the profaned paper stacked in reams.
Lovers that have come and gone,
circumstance  I stand upon.

Pain of body, pain of mind,
hopes ahead, and loss behind.
I blush as crimson as a rose
for some of the patches I expose.

I feel I should apologize.
All this rhyming seems unwise,
but in all  of this, my only goal
is to show these patches on my soul.

I went to the sea to heal my heart.
I found a balm
in the sighing waves,
the soothing salty air.

She's a fickle lover; It's often said
by sailors and ******,
and other lost souls
whose songs become the wailing wind.

The mad man has the saddest laugh;
maniacal and strange,
with tears in his eyes,
pleading for lost love's return.

I'll climb the rigging and heave the line
perhaps in time
I'll forget why I came,
and only curse the northerly wind.

Three points off the starboard bow
I see her walking
on the waves.
My heart still has far to go.

I've come to laugh that burnt tragic laugh
of men who stay
too long at sea
and now I've forgotten why I came.

The pretense of circular reasoning paints the eyes
a misty shade of dull.
Eyes that view, from the dragon perch
of a counterclockwise carousel,
imagined scenery with a sprinkling of dreams.

A Gothic vision of crashing waves
against the grayish cliffs
that rise to a foggy grass clad plain
where sits the emblematic gabled home
with ****** in the windows.

The calliope moans a dragging tune
to match it's steady spin.
the sound of wind through tarnished brass
archaic and unsettling, a broken drag
of whiny sounding notes in a symphony of impotence.

You seem to look and dress the part
of the person you portray;
feigning superficiality for acceptance in the world
I, myself, am not for a second fooled.
You are the very essence of substance and depth

The carousel comes to a gradual halt
a hesitant dismount;
back to your prison of practicality and need;
visions pass from ominous to pastoral tranquility
The eccentric dragon of blue and gold awaits your return.

Posing thoughtfully at the cliffs edge
Longing for life's release
Against the scornful gaze of the sun
In soft chaos and charming havoc
Dying is much too easy.

Under a glass bell
sighing cause I like the sound
everywhere is light refracted
feelings are fickle sprites
under the scattered lights
loving yesterday
living today
yearning for the comfort of night.

Can you weave some words for me
on the worn out loom
vying for the perfect texture
enter the unknown stranger
recklessly whistling by the tomb

Know the friendliness of time
never speak of what is stolen
every fit of fury
every soft stroke and broken line.