Sit in stillness
Allow the unrest
Of idleness
Contour the shape
Of nonentity

Soon you’ll hear
A loud ringing
Within your ear

The same noise
Howling staunch
Before you sleep

The same sound blaring
As the world stagnates
And time loiters
And sorrow seeps up from the rug

I don’t think you realize
You will never see him again
As long as you live

For now he is a tall tale
Retold to offspring
A distant memory
A mythic architect

Nothing in the past has ever occurred
There is only now
And now
There is only the wind

And the world moves on
And time resumes clockwise
And his ashes are spread about the sea

rolled over
past the entry of sunlight
no spark of lust
receded back to base
like an animal
nothing to gain
no one to concede
quietly suffering
could not go get
could not get up,
the burn
was painless
for I was already jaded,
no lesson to be learned
nothing to be redeemed
just the quiet anticipation  
of forthcoming heartbreak
to engender upon
my delicate hands
just the stillness
before the unrest
the calm
before the cry

So I feareth this time,
after countless unscathed elusions,
thou shalt be hit in the bullseye of thine instability.
And life shall cease to be what it hath been for thee;
naught shall ever betide the same nor semblance remain.
Thou shalt be thrown from comfort to discomfort,
from known to unknown—order to chaos.

Thou mayest advance henceforth with heroic stride.
Hitherto ameliorate thy flawed character and excess pride.
Or thou mayest sink fathoms beneath the ocean’s floor,
albatross bound to mangled tongue, too bitter to implore.

Didst thou not know?
That no wight be impervious to misfortune?
And so despair?
Giveth thyself a mote of credit Mine untried son,
thou hast always known.

Thou art a child no more.
Void is thy license to lie about thy back on spring days,
heedless of thy wristwatch, harkening to wind-chimes,
daydreaming—building castles on dense blue firmament,
cogitating the phenomenon of mind, body, and soul.

I hath been with thee for eternity.
Watching, waiting.
So dearly proud of thee.
Thou art of distinct variety.
Thou canst see what others canst not see.
And for that, thou art held to greater scrutiny.

Cold burns the beauty from the scape
and buries the breath of God;
still waters collect death yet still thrive wild.

You sit there,
mountain basin as your chair,
picturesque—a wilted flower in your hair.

Nineteen burned away
like deadwood from an ancient grove,
still partly due to the paternity of your tyrant
and the benevolence of your father.

I can only admire for so long, before
I cannot bare desistance from your glow,
the heat from the center of your being, the cold
from the ice-capped genius of your conscious.

Tomorrow seems as a promise and so it may be true,
the opportunity to begin anew and labor on
the next step forward in tragic existence, leading beyond
to tragic finality; heavy breath and pounding heart,
awakened to foresight, a gift from the woeful ****
of knowledge learned to the entropy of physiology—
within a mote of hope reaps meaning from ontology.

As once the Earth, chaotic and unfeigned
tamed thus through speech of blossomed order,
gave rise to rival ebb and flow; yin and yang
unbeknownst, pervade each other's border.

And thou resist this myth of sagacity,
yet act the role of honest ancient heroes
to refrain thy rest from saltwater depths,
quelling cowards, liars, and unwise youth,
punished in life and thereafter, still—
cold burns not the beauty of the truth.

I’ve seen the leaves change color
And die and live again

My love for the past
Swinging in front of me
Like a piñata—
But I cannot hit it
For my will is undone

Too many soft curves
Too many easy *****

I miss yesterday
Like I miss the tomb of your bed

Golden retrospection
Contrite inner-reflection

Soon you’ll be old and
I’ll be old and
Who’ll know how hard life was
In these olden days

Tense as death
Before saying I love you
On a starry night
As the ball dropped
And firecrackers popped

Our cups of champagne
Warm and empty
Our hearts filled
With gaiety and envy