Planet silhouetting atlases
of worlds we'll never know.
Their histories repeat,
through mushroom clouds
of soft pink explosions,
crying their fears for us to feel.
We watch them live and die,
admiring the beauty of life and death;
only I weep when light eminates through their wars.

Hello Poetry,
Why are you not stopping prose
running rampant here?

It’s been two years since I first met You,
and one year since I wrote to You.
Oh, my, how You’ve made me grow.
The toughest year I’ve seen has passed.

I suffered for months and questioned a lot—
I knew You had a plan, but I must follow through.
On the darkest night I gathered the little I had
and drank Your unblessed blood as I wrote.

Unsure of what was said, I went to bed,
and in the morning I found written gold.
The words, though, were not my own—
even more unknown was the character transcribed.

The path was now set to leave the forest,
the same unruly garden Your last blessed poet
journeyed from successfully so many years ago,
with my own Beatrice as my glorious guide.

But my Beatrice has plans of her own,
as both a Muse and developmental instigator.
She holds my hand as we walk off cliffs
knowing full well that I cannot fly.

I tried to learn the follies of Lust
and alone its intricacies eluded me;
but she showed me in an instant  that what we want
can wait, the good-willed Lust, the puzzle piece, and missing link.

From here I can move on again, slowly recovering.
Each new dream sets the stage of life’s chapters,
to convey the ideas I want all to know,
and to remember the power one wields with a pen.

I saw the saddest scene today,
when a boy— now a year older—
abandoned his bicycle because she was older.

Enticed by lust, on his new bike he rode away,
caught up in the moment—he didn’t mean to scold her—
yet no second was spared to look back over his shoulder.

I stopped watering my lawn, eyes where the bike lay,
imagining the loneliness felt when he disowned her,
and I felt emptier than a bike’s seat with no owner.

Even inside my home, on my conscience it weighed
because of their tryst, there was another knower.
“He took her for a ride, and he didn’t even know her.”

In my mind I console her, such idle words I say,
for nobody’s pedaling foot would ever suit her
until that pettler’s foot stopped blocking the suture.

“I was like you recently, so for you I pray,
though, the absence was open and lacked closure;
hopefully, your steel frame employs better composure.

“Nostalgia will make him pine for his yesterday,
pictures’ll frame the story of love lost when he’s older.
In time, loving hands will lift you up,” I told her.

A flower cannot unblossom,
but it can stay beautiful forever.
Put in a book-- thin as pressed papers--
all while its holder's fingers hover over.
There it stays safe until the book is closed,
the flower's fate, from then on, is unknown.

I draw lines like a map
and walk along its coast.
The tempests of one day,
seem to quell by the next.  
After the sand's the swell's host,
my troubled tides pull away.

I bathed in a steam shower, I still feel impure.