The civilization of
poets has thinned out.
There's a drought of
metaphors and symbolism.
We are all prisoners in
a musty attic.
Where is Emily when
you need her?
I'm afraid they've gone
the way of the graveyard.
Too much ***** and
too many broken hearts.

Where have all the
painters gone?
Sunk deep in
cobalt blue.
Artists resurrect!
Come out and play.
These are days full
of sumptuous sunrises,
and nights laden with neon.
I long for those
Jagged edges and brush strokes
that bleed pain and love.

Art changes our world.
It makes the brutality
bearable.
The smell of paint and old
books, transport us to
a gentle place laced with
ambrosia that we all
should drink.

Finding little Beauty in his world he thought
Like Jason and the Argonauts

"I'll build myself a mighty Ship with words
And out of the best parts of myself select a Crew

Then we'll set sail on the Seas of Rhyme
To the Ends of the Earth if need be

We'll bring back Beauty's Crown
To heal ourselves... and the world too".

It’s the kind of sadness where your rib cage
Contorts
And twists and
Snaps.

Depression doesn’t float through my veins
It crawls through my bones, with dagger hands
And winding movements.

I cannot breathe.

And yet there was nothing taken from me.

Can i touch it?
She whispers
As she discreetly
Glances down
No you can't touch it
Not here
Not now
But you can look at it
He whispers back
As he gently
Puts his heart
Back in his chest

we spent some time in the wind
and then drifted off to other things
we allowed the air to shift us apart
so we could land wherever we belonged
I was happy to know the person I knew
so I didn't hold on to the parts the wind took
it had better plots when it blew us away
and never intended for us to stay