The morning sun slowly rises
Above the great white mountain peaks.
The cold wind blows unmercifully
Through the vast deserted valleys
The trees creek and moan
Under the immense pressure of the wind

As quick as the snow began
It now ceases
Lulling the landscape into a hushed silence
The wind has died
The falling snow no more
The tranquil scene lay untouched
In front of heaven's door

How much longer will this tranquillity go undisturbed
How much longer till nature awakens

Soon in the distance
A chick-a-dee is heard
Then a roaring bobcat
Nature is slowly unfolding
Her graceful wings of life

As the day passes
And the sun climbs higher
In the deep blue sky
The snow begins to melt
The brooks begin to bubble

I've held the hands of ****** addicts.
I've kissed the faces of prostitutes.
I've hugged the bodies of the most broken.

To walk amongst the dead is where I belong.
To hold the fingers of lifeless flesh is the only thing these hands know to do.

Let me show you a love you've never known to exist.
Let me tell you about a life you've only dreamed about.

I'll glue every piece of your shattered body together.
No matter how much blood drips from these hands, I'll mend every sharp edge.

The scars on these hands will remind me of every soul I've been stitched with.

These deep, stretched, alluring scars.

to be at home in the desert
is to enter silence
and wait for the silence to speak

Her Heart is abstract art - it is Magic
Her soul is a masterpiece that moves like the tides..
She is the moon and everything around her the earth..
She lights you up like the sun and when you align you change the tides..
Her beauty is Enchanting!
she leaves a cosmic trail as she orbits around your thoughts..
She is chaos, but she is Your kind of Magic!!

What song did the sirens sing, Ulysses?
What tune could break your will,
cause you to lose your way?

Were you strung by the sound of a harpy's harp?
Lured by the lies of hideous creatures
singing songs of fabled falsehoods?
Like empty eggshells holding none
of the nutrients they promised.

Was their melody flooded with the bitter truth of love unreturned?

Did they sing of release?
Release from the turmoil the journey was and would continue to bring?
Were the dissonant harmonics of a watery end,
the chance to be one with the sea
what made you beg for your bindings to be cut?

Perhaps the sirens sang the greatest songs of all.
Perchance they sung
of passion sweeter than nectar,
of love stronger than ambrosia,
waiting to be given to the sailor
that could traverse
death itself
and make his way to them.

I loved you
not for the things you were but for the things you made me feel