I tried always
looking for her
searching for her
for only a trace
of her presence
in my life.

The evanescence
of her existence
always fading,
vanishing
from my life.

Although
my paths
always
crossed hers
but I lost her,
she eluded my sight
blinding darkness, no light
like the words
that elude
my quill
when I brood
in a pensive mood
I'm unable to write.

And when in loneliness
deprived of thoughts
I lay mindless
to sleep alone
and slowly flown
into the visions,
hallucinations,
of my mind.

I try not to try trying
to look for her
but she
suddenly
appears in full light
with all of her might
like a hyper realistic sketch
embroidered, engrained and etched
on the curtains of my mind.

her image comes alive
from a memory
her face of ivory
her lips of soft cotton
that I had forgotten
long ago
and now
she keeps coming
back to me
in the swirling carousel of dreams
and plays a motion picture
as I try not to think.

As I try not to think
words keep coming
back to me
and this verse flows freely.

she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?

this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)

Inner Peace

What else could make you feel so excited than noticing the yellow lightning upon all monochromes?

keeping your emotions to yourself,
is the safest way to hide pain
yet the fastest way to die insane