My pen and I sit and write by the River Thames,
The London Eye clear despite gazing through a haze.
Questions rise, amazed am I, by my silent pen.
Try do I, so why can’t I follow other men?

Mulling now on thoughts and how they form inside the mind.
Do they come with time, or like Holmes must one go find?
Or have I overlooked a simply queer idea?
What if thoughts collect like the staid hands of Leah?

Famous poems, here were born-- but hordes have also died.
All these words go unheard by many bards that tried.
Trapped in Limbo words remain ‘til they recompense—
Freed by one whose work’s undone, still unsure from whence.

Never fret if an idea you ever forget,
For here it remains, at the River Thames, in set.
Waiting to be writ by a pen and hand so kind,
For poets can clean the pollutants of the mind.

You’re leaving.
There was so much to be said.
Words, thoughts, feelings,
goodbyes.

The moment has passed—
too quickly—
but what should I do with unspoken words?
Where do they go?
They begin to lack vigor and tangency.

If thoughts could fly like birds,
then I would be watching mine approach the horizon
growing smaller
and smaller
and then
gone.

But they’re not gone--
just elsewhere.
Have they flown with the rising sun on their backs
to that place you’re fated to be?
Or am I erroneous to think as such?

Resting in the recess of my mind—
the lucre of a passive marauder—
these words remain
buried.

Life’s situations changed between acts.
Distance drew the curtains shut.
Intermission.
The curtain draws again—the characters altered.
I, the observer, surprised by the act’s new backdrop, notice
the players have matured.
Quickly, too—
but my view has not yet adapted
still remembering the beautiful set of life’s passed scenes.

Alas, the show must go on.

A slight change is never noticed
when the frame of time is small.
As children we grew each day,
only the the annual notch showed how tall.

You may be the one who’s static in traffic
caused by construction—a nuisance it’s true—
but it's  the one now home from abroad who says:
“Everything is so different, this is not what I knew.”

The paradox is queerly commonplace:
This feeling that from day-to-day nothing has changed—
except maybe which day gets crossed out—
yet time spent in nostalgic reflection shows
the sheer metamorphosis that has come about.

We always move forward with goals in our telescopes.
When the glorious day comes in passing, it will end and that’s that.
Like the student, eager to stop school when the flowers first bloom,
will soon see foliage—a punishment that time begat.

They say you never know what you have until it’s gone,
yet few of them pause to watch the world transform.
They tell us to enjoy each day like it’s our last,
yet they curse time spent inside caused by a cleansing storm.

Even I neglected the sun’s sky, who gave way to the moon now born.
Precedence was given to my pen and this foul verse without scorn.
Yet, only the sun’s birth can give rise to this sentiment I mourn.

How can I call you friends,
with your naught time of day.
A mockery of the word;
a hell with no real cure.
I forgive injustices.
Always.
I just wish
to understand the bases.
Mine and yours.

I sit with you, my friend.
My silence--I can't comprehend--
words fail me, unsure what to say;
simply, "It will all be okay."

The answer I gave is right,
but sincerity dies with trite.
Life's tribulations have reason,
even for this recent treason.

Time will connect with the timeless--
then sense can be made of all this mess;
but when, I cannot be sure of--
'til then, I'll console you with love.

This idea of clarity--
closure to the problems that be.
An illusion that may comfort.
"How do you know?" Is your retort.

"Cause the world works itself out"--
If that's the case, I then doubt
my, now former, preached discernment--
Discrepancies make me repent.

It's the perception that counts...
"Don't depress when confusion mounts,
you searched all reason-- all, but one:
     That your life will be better
     If the clarity remains undone"

A loved one lost leaves us with less in life,
not a loss to death and his scythe, rather, love’s untimely death.
At first a soul severed does not suffer, numbness reigns over .
For hope, that foolish feeling, whose feigned friendship forges a trust,
woos without warning, whereby a weak body—in disbelief,
hears Hope’s healing message with haste and hardly heeds her coy hint:
“Toil with Time;” therefore, Hope, through truthful trials with Time, teaches.

Time’s quite an omnipotent entity—an ever-morphing force.
The stages of Love’s relations—from first sight to last—change
the flow of Time. When Love starts it trickles from the mountain’s source;
slow and steady, but gains speed as each shared interest adds on.
These streams form a river, Time passes by—Love keeps you busy.
Eons seem to pass in the blink of an eye, noticed only
when that love departs. Time’s effect returns, languishing the void;
that drop of water trickles over your soul making time lull.
The mind replays the broken record of Love’s last visit till
Time’s drop drips from its place onto the rose’s petal, splashing
that prison of longing open, for Love’s return sets you free.
If that drop lands on the posy, for your rose was picked by one
whose hand is unknown, Time causes unfamiliar drought as
that posy shrivels under the sun. Time, now vapor, ascends—
with others joining we form a cloud of soles—growing denser still.
Up here we watch the world revolve, Time’s presence perceived no more.
This Union of Soles float in a blur, each learns from a neighbor.
Knowledge gained heals the sole, but is useless if employed alone.
We pray, forlorn—hearts still torn, till we fall to an earthly shore;
so keep Faith close, along with Hope, for Time will take course once more.

At this point I must disclose that I still need to elevate,
by descending from the misty fog of Time’s timeless smokescreen;
however, my time spent is not in vain. The lessons I learn
shape my view on life’s inner workings—cognition reigns over.
Over and over, I’ve seen the world revolve, patterns appear.
I see sole souls enter this realm alone, then leave as quickly,
for few remain stuck here, jailed in the prison of the timeless.
Most move on— graduated, learned, and having passed Time’s tests.
Alas, I am a mule in a stable—stubborn and restless.
This aside is ending as a descent’s beginning takes flight.

Love is only truly lost when one cannot overcome change.
A switch, which demotes loves to a plane of platonic tenor.
With faithfulness, a likeness to those before the Fall furthers
the Sole’s doles—now brighter—they exonerate Love’s loss of love.
When the soul, driven, has forgiven, then friendship’s re-obtained.

Hello Dear Friend,
         It’s been a while since I’ve wrote you.
Woes of lost friendship must have driven me here,
in fear of other lanes that is, to this letter.
Laughter and joy has been had, them in lieu of you.
Ewes can ape wolves, as you’ve seen in three years prior,
the choir sang the same triad, this time quiet.
Quite sad— I know, but I’ve spoken enough on me,
for thee I am writing, and to thee I now write:

You must have been busy bringing joy to the world;
or joy to a world, of one I’ve met never.
Another basis, wherefore, I stop this stasis
of silence. We’ll needn’t recall to remember,
for like the migrants of nature, nothing has changed—
only the season, or maybe just the weather—
regardless, the moral stands as thus: History
has shown those of the same feather flock together;
so, as such, we do not lose time in relearning
quirks or behaviors—innate powers take over

Then, again, the inane behavior shall ensue.
Fluid synchronization of minds—now union—
is source to the river highly known for knowledge.
Dialogue sows the seeds, such that comprehension
of grand ideas, which sprout like fruit at the Lethe,
can be harvested to feed the minds of others.
Thoughts that they found too puerile, we now encounter
regularly, and never have we thought to laugh
at any one. Instead we laugh coyly, as we
discuss things of great measure absentmindedly.
The weight of measure felt by us knows few others—
wherefore, I ask: what deserves merit? But One knows,
and those answers lie in the minds of the many.

But here I must stop, for I, quite abashedly,
feel your response to this notion has bearing on
the rest of my premeditated first letter.
With Godspeed I send this, in hopes—with haste, you’ll read
and respond. At last a new dialogue begins.

Remember: those who look— will find,
       *Your Dearest Friend