The starry night is consumed
By vapid moonlight;
Mere reflections shine
In an orange glow,
Like a cut-out hole
In black cardboard,
In front of blazing torchlight,
Forgotten reflections of memories
Of forgotten lyrics.

The imagery serves
Only to protect from
The incomprehensible vastness
Of actual space, free from abstraction,
Pressing down onto you as you stare
Up into the night, compressed
By the hydraulic press of the universe
Which ensures that which is big is really
Very small.

A child speaks
With no hint of malice
A child acts
With no restrictions
A child plays
With no alertness
A child exists
With no care for position
Taken away with age
Most humane
Most disdained
Hated for their freedom
But if a child loses it all
Their greatest freedom is nonexistence

A better world may come
But not from a worse world
You fight for the future
But your actions stay cold
Burning, sinking
Preventable but predictable
You live out of fear
Your path is paved with death
Unnatural lives
Succumbing to natural strife
A clock without time
A race with no finish line

Speaking with serenity
A frequency that my ears
Can never register
Am I deaf? Am I blind?
Deep inside, I think I'm fine
But I never was at all
I can hear your voice
It never calls to me
A world hungry for the lonely
Makes me distrust my ears and eyes
If everything can be refreshed
Then serenity dies once in a while
Reborn to suit a distorted purpose
In due time

What lies ahead of us

The Poet's Task

Is to understand the beings that exist
with love and
to discover the
truth they conceal

as vividly as possible

The anxiety of love
The rest of love
banishing the sorrow of existence
the sacred love
this unfathomable love
wandering between heaven and earth
gifting the happiness of creation

The foolishest Love
removing corruption and incompetence
that must be filled
by the poet of this age.

Growing weary on the road,
respite seemingly out of grasp, wild
eyes cast their silver-yellow sullen

warning to the ground below as we crane
our twisted necks up: a meager offering
to the ones who walked the path before

Horned owl, languid head turning, collects
our astonished gasps like cold gleaming
rubies once tossed into a ravine or river —

nearby, the fog rolls in: curious bystander
ever intent on pulling the heavy curtain aside
to devour the last tasty morsels in the thrill

of a bygone moment — reckless and ripe
with the bloodstains of youth, the hunger
departing and returning in an instant