I have been lost for one day too many
it wasn't until now that I realized.

On that day I woke up with a stranger's eyes,
and what I saw I knew was new.
I left my home after taking a while
to try and recognize the face and smile
All the features staring back were me
but in reality couldn't be true

Walking now I feel the shoes
in which this day chose me to fill.  
My downcast eyes-- by my feet mesmerized--
had hardly familiarized themselves with the world.
The spectral haze crept on the horizon,
the fog's clearly opaque clouds drew around me too.

I now knew each moment was a lifetime lived before,
as each day was a new life that starts the same.

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Words often used
but cliche is not you;
yet anything I'd say
wouldn't be new.
I wanted to see comparable beauty
so a pretty picture I drew.
Intoxicated by your beauty
my feeble attemp I rue
where my hand will fail
my unoriginal phrases lieu.
So here is the poem
whose words will ring true
well through the 14th
'Til forever plus a few:

Faith in women was lost,
but your eyes always renew
feelings that are harbored
and I want to eschew.

That is hardly a negative
but why, I haven't a clue
I'm an out of place Cinderella
and my foot fits the shoe

I'm eleven strokes to midnight-
this I'm sure you knew-
such an idea kept my mind busy
while waiting for the day I'm due.

So similar in mind,
logically grounded, but creativity flew.
The stars have us adjoining
by Aries' days one and two.

It was as if I put my hand to a mirror
but I don't remember who withdrew.  
I only see a backwards glance and smile--
stunned, I had not a thought nor word to spew.

It's embarrassing to admit
but your attention makes me mew
the noise is internally heard,
and externally I'm a rouge hue.

Your past came back to visit
from its repeat I hope you grew.
Penelope's Box has again been opened
so of your suitors, there must be a slew.

Time is one thing I do have
so take longer than you have to
the reward will be worth reaping
when, again, those tranquil thoughts ensue

Birthdays are foolish;
a day is simply a day,
nothing is special.

The circle of life
proves that it will never end
with each new sunrise.

When I close my eyes
I fall from the sky
gasping for air,
while squinting I cry.

Nauseously excited
Landing will be a cinch
knowing I'll stay safe
while the onlookers wince.

Over head I see a plane
one day I will fly,
and if e'er I climb too high
I know I'll ne'er die.

I don't know quite when
but one day the world will end
will you join me then?

I was driving in the back seat of a gray coupé
and there it was.
A white church with a white steeple
and a path to a white place.
The lattermost— a snowflake, before a cloud—
was a facade preceded by five red steps
and met by an equally red door.
I thought you should know
that place exists.

Artificial wind
heard overhead; turbulent,
roaring, and distant.

time slows
the end is nigh
make
it
last
forever

Four blocks of ice concealed in a cylindrical prison,
cubes-- they're so imperfectly not.
An eclectic mixture now gone,
empty drinks sweating circles on wood.
The owners in mismatched homes
of strangers well known.
Four blocks of ice saw it all,
saddened only when they lose the last drops they keep cold.

Does anyone else feel the moon follows just to mock
with that waxing crescent pearly white smile?
The necessary light of my nocturnal path;
regardless of which corner I turn she's comfortably watching.
If only she spoke of the sorrows she felt
so to stop her nightly lamentations.
She holds that smile as merely a facade
one we all know but brush off as odd.
Oh night denizen, your monthly repose
makes me wish I were a star whose light you sang woes.

You see me and I see you,
we want to believe our actions are true.
By true, our own, but neither is,
we're all an imitation of what we've seen.

As trivial as a yawn so contagious,
or a popped knuckle that makes your insides itch
with the desire to follow suit daunting,
until the release of air and distress.

And as complicated as genetic code-- offspring following--
so naturally unnoticed like metered swallowing;
but like the mother ducks, who allievate stresses
of waters strong, we learn to cope from elders.

Whether it be innate or not,
had we not aped we'd be naught.
Forever we will remain children
who want another's toy 'til it's dropped.

They say littering is bad but there's one kind I admire,
and that's a cigarette on asphalt laying by a tire. 
Thrown and forgotten after one last goodbye kiss--
the fallen, I watch, sends smoke signal farewells and a contemptuous hiss. 
Lamenting to the air, whose particles spread his lore,
hoping to warn the next who lives the life he had before.

One time not too long ago
a sunset would avert my eyes.
Its beauty surpassed my idea
of reality canonized.

Soon, I adjusted and could stare,
and read what the world would tell;
but then a light, whose eyes I could not meet,
had intoxicated me like a Lenaea's spell.

Then the earth quivered as I fell,
awaking hours later and alone no longer.
The light-- superior than a mundane description--
was the warmth by whom my soul was conquered.

One thousand lives lay before me.
Smooth edges jaggedly intermixed
each one has its place.
Some are the corners of a frame,
others fill the void.
The voices unsolved each screech-- annoyed.

When they find their place silence reigns.
Engaged in a kiss only seen on a silver screen.
Lips locked so perfectly, so ingeniously engineered
Their places found through trials and plight
as tired eyes glaze over the chaotic table.
How can this game depict life's fable?

Here I am again,
watching the scenery loop
on the carousel's third lap. 

I'd rather not have paid the fair
but to have observed the hellish chaos 
from outside this whirlwind of horses. 

The eye of the storm doesn't exist here
when the stationary cavalry doesn't stop,
but I chose to enlist in your war. 

My last tour ended with a bang,
body intact, but inside was torn,
and I said I'd "never fight the good fight again."

But here I am
caught in the searing winds,
scars refreshed, sobering and familiar. 

How did I let this happen?
The Siren's song was so alluring,
with promises strewn on shores' crags. 

Oh Helen, you made me face a thousand ships,
but when my eyes returned 
you were merely a new mare on the merry-go-round.

I knew what to expect 
when I chose to turn on the fleets,
but my childish dreams convinced me you were different. 

Advisors had warned,
and instinct agreed,
but my trust has become my enemy. 

So here I am again,
surrounded, not yet able to retreat,
but the battle is almost over. 

This time I swear I'll never fight again.
You don't recognize peace until it returns,
and isolationism is the key to keeping it. 

I promise I won't,
but first I must wait
for the looped music to cease.

Eyes red, face calm
Body lax, clenched palm.

Dollish smile, extends long
Anger right, owner wrong.

Frustration grows, sincerely yours
Practicing good, eroding shores.

Instigated ire, complicated time
Virtuously joyed, conditional chime.

It has been a year since I first met You—
innumerable changes have been made.
Knowledge You knew before these words I wrote.
Regardless, my gratitude is in this ode:

Two fortnights less five, in the month July—
a night I’ll ne’er forget—in which Your birth was
two thousand and eleven years prior.
Seen in my choice of caravan—car not foot.

Trees in motion around me— rise and dive,
still nature now epic— vast, powerful waves.
An ocean angered, queued by Your great will,
staggered me— I dreamt then to float on that lea.

Now submerged in awe, my lungs fill, I drift.
Thoughts’ vessel stays empty, my mind lost at sea.
The storm passed, all was calm and all was clear-
o’er that water I rose, beached by blue skies.

The shore out of sight, but it I saw.
Blinded I had been. For years I was oppressed—
vogue logic stifled creative free thought.
You needn’t say, I knew then what to do.

I found a pad and inscribed wild scribbles-
what I rendered I knew not, yet I did.
Erratic lines became a map of fate.
Three stood on a gorge tall, I being one.

I found that land within rivers bound
While wading in dialogue I found it.
It being the thought which soon would blossom.
Hardly quick though, Your seeds need time to grow.

Unsure when to harvest, yet I knew then
to appreciate art of prose and verse.
To convey the feelings only I knew.
To know the powers one wields with a pen.

I’m alone in watching a coal burn
a solid object internally lit.
A tongue of fire
whose flames don’t lick.

A heart

The allusion, now clear,
yet the edges remain blurred.

Fire and flames struggle and fight,
without a lifting wind they’re weak.
Their culminations are short lived.
Deadened ashes.

Lust

Embers remain
after the excitement is snuffed out.
The slightest breeze kisses their cheeks
and they show new life.
Glowing unconditionally.

Love

I’m alone in watching a coal burn out
slowly
s l o w l y
s  l  o  w  l  y
f   a   d   i   n   g      a   w   a   y.

Even when the fire is lost,
the embers of love will burn on.

So grateful am I,
to be a part of all this.
A community--
the ace of a single suit.

Humility I must show,
for who am I among you all?
I am not Hercules, nor Achilles--
merely a mortal among gods.
And        you        are      gods.

Oh, how I wish to emulate thee--
your verses are flawless,
your ideas so succinct.
When I compare my work to yours,
my poems seem weak.

Are your Muses more granting?
Do you care more than me?
Cant be, my heart has been spilled--
on this page it bleeds.

Yet every poem I read,
by an author that's not me,
leaves me feeling embarrassed
to share the same space--
this home we call "HP"

Sigh*
feeling alive just isn't what it used to be.

If silence is truly golden,
then why does its presence pain me?
Being without your words creates
a veiled distortion within me.

Throngs of false thought and poor reason
can no longer be neglected.
If only your voice could release
these demons my mind has collected.

If silence is truly golden,
then yours must be cursed like Midas.
Maybe my ramblings are unjust,
Over-thinking is logic’s Judas.

To be truly colorblind,
(and I mean truly blind to color),
I see as a heavenly gift.
To never know complexity,
the world's beauties remain untainted.
The masses would say I am missing out,
but ignorance is bliss.
Simplicity is a heavenly gift to me.

Trivial pursuits
of incorporeal joys
are essential to our existence.

Have you ever felt caught in a trap,
unable to escape,
yet somehow you rest easy,
for this has always been your fate?

Have you ever felt caught in a trap,
unable to escape,
then you calmly accept the truth:
that help takes time-- so you sit and wait?

Have you ever felt caught in a trap,
unable to escape,
and only when it's too late,
you realized you were the bait?

Clarity of mind,
like a window pane,
can be a lens to observe life;
but regardless of how immaculate,
there will always be a film in between
hindering true limpidity.

What is in a smile,
the silent tongue we all know,
that creates a homely feeling?

An occurrence so quick—
it's infinite.

A defined word—
impossible to describe.

Your muscle tension—
a natural response—
a reflection of a lax face formerly grinning.

Strangers acquainted by a shared moment—
a second whose detail would take a lifetime to limn.

When an unexpected smile arises,
the heart—a light, whose brightness is love—
shines intensely, spreading warmly through body and soul,
*forever resplendent.

As we travel through the mountains--
our vessel snaking round each mound--
I wonder how we seem to them,
merely ants marching on the ground.
Two by two threading the treed lea.
Man's existence becomes irrelevant.
A leaf on the ground is unique,
yet a forest before decent.
We each are a puzzle piece here
to a jigsaw never complete.

Sleepless night.
Dashed lines on either side,
one handled wheel in front.

Glaring gales from glassed gasses
add weight to twitching lids.

Close
Open
Close

Open.
Bright light blinding--
beams reaching out--
The fingers of God warm my face.

Eyes adjust as I wake.
I straighten up.
The road stretches on.

Tables scattered--
Round illuminated islands.
A snubbed cigarette whispers its last words to the room.

Vanes spinning--
Records circulating air.
Hypnosis settles like a dusting-- coating the mind's past troubles.

Her voice--
Softly traveling in waves.
Weaving a blanket-- alms soothing a once cold vacuum.

I now know bliss.

I look and stare at the beauty of your pair—
so new, their intricacies I now study.
The color is subtle and quite comparable
to my desk’s dark grain where sun and wood have lain.
Lost am I, in those eyes, such that senses die.

Eyes pull away, gazing now at that smile’s stay—
it’s kind and shy, and encages butterflies.
My heart will palpitate with a feather’s weight
each time those lips take rise— such, is love’s reprise.
My mind rests on you, and tranquil thoughts ensue.

For you I pine, with your hand clasped in mine—
these feelings transcendent of lovers just met.
Your eyes—a spark—inspire love and fire.
The latter I fight, thus this verse I indict
for its aesthetic appraisal. Your Musal
qualities mold my virtues to grow twofold.

To want is a specific desire,
not to be confused with what we require.
If a cozy sweater is what you need most,
don’t forget those who need the warmth of fire.

If one needs, they will fight to remain alive.
When you want it’s just for a new way to thrive.
To want can seem quite selfish, but half the glass is full--
the need to rise past the mundane helps us strive.

If one desires a hand to hold and love,
is such an act like caging a cooing dove?
Do not let your dove be cooped without a key,
their wants, compared to yours, should be held above.

When you want, keep this simple idea in mind:
What for you’ve pined may agree with the divine,
but hold close the ones you deem ethereal,
for a wish that’s perverted He wont find kind.

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

Last night an estranged man came to my door.
Upon its opening we stared, unsure
of why the other one stood opposite.

"Excuse me, but what do you solicit?
Do you know anyone home at present?"
Besotted by ale, "Yes, for I live here."

Rash in my response, he could not rebut,
I should have helped, yet I slammed the door shut...

I look in the mirror, the subject framed--
A monster-- scarred with decades of conflicts,
But others see a youth perpetually tamed.
The battle fought was all within, only to me explicit.

Strifes with friends all in my mind
Overthought words clog reason. Reserved, but virtuous,
Always expecting the golden rule to apply, though none are kind.
The problem's within me
I am too nice, the other's aren't contemptuous.

I must work to elevate my mind, resent less.
Not my neighbors-- my thought; the catalyst of my growth.
An arduous journey, efforts must remain relentless,
But less rest makes me regress, the ebb and flow,
The didactic struggle of history, in a microcosm so small.

The flight of the mind anchored by the burden of guilt
Each new break through shows a hole in the wall
of yesterday's beliefs towards good,
now a window to a grander one built.

Does every soul struggle with this Hell?
The will to do good not nurtured by nature.
I hope for the best, will good will come? Will time tell?
First my soul must work to mature--
No hatred, love only, for all, no exclusions
For He would do the same, forgive forever.

Each hurtful word said is a soul's laceration.
The ire over, but there's scar tissue--Past's physical identification.

As I watch the sky’s canvas change
I begin to think of the painter.
That one who is watching the same elsewhere,
and what he might think of such a scene.

Sitting, he would be looking out watching the sky’s stage alter,
painting gardens’ clouds, each colored different, span silver through red;
switching-- torn between red roses, white lilies, or orange tulips--
forming the garden's space, quickly. The eve’s sun dips down gently,
giving way as blue hues ascend opposite that orb’s retreat.
Envious, Sun lets Moon's beauty pull lovingly over him.
Nature’s nocturnal chorus singing, lulling its audience.
The bittersweet dark—another day, the painting not quite done,
put to sleep. The silent din engulfing his mind’s empty thought—
darkness switching on that light which calms artists’ creative springs.

“Light Regardless of its source—may it be pure
as the sun’s rays, or some modern substitute—
has some aesthetic quality. I’m not sure,
however, where from the light best contributes.
Is beauty derived by where the light emits?
Or is it enlightened by where the ray hits?”

He began mulling this thought over; turning it over and over—questions born.
A discource of such phenomena will show a thought forming--
nay, a riddle; with answers hiding, not wanting to be known:

“Is it the sunset’s orange and red that awes,
or the blueing clouds opposite that cause pause?”
The dams holding thought buckle; ideas, questions flood the bard’s mind.

“Is a smile’s worth found in its owner’s mouth,
or the ensuing grin, no longer pout?”
Plain idea, now broad. “Because a smile can be contagious…

“Is the eloquence of a speech seen as art,
or inspiration now gained to do one’s part?”
Words, an entity with power, reign over—the poet awakes.

“Is a poem’s verse the beauty of the bard,
Or diction plied with inferred worth— it’s guard?”
That ability permits the ineffable to be explained.

Eyes adjust to the sun’s speed—now energy and courage’s built--
awakes from that swoon. “The slothful lovers stay behind,” thought Sun,
“Neglect not that flight presented, which taken, betters the will:
'Brighten the world.' That dark denizen inspires warmth in me.”
The sun’s rise concludes those thoughts studied the night before-
grabbing his brush, thinks: “En Guarde stubborn canvas, my mind’s at ease.”
Vitality-- flying wild thoughts which emerge--decides
what key his baton should direct them, either the drawn sun’s source
or the face which welcome’s its colors being exemplified.

After a minute of looking I turn my gaze,
happy to leave that place .
Knowing full well in a full day
I’ll have this dream occur once more.
That daily walk, whose length directs my drifting thoughts,
rotates the sets of beauties dreamt, each fresh from a growing list long as time.

I strangely find solace in solitude.
Not isolationism, for people's company suits me.
However, I manage to remove my mind of distractions
that are presented to me by the presence of so many.

For being alone serves no purpose; there, knowledge does not thrive.
A lone soul knows one view, so one of many tales go not told.
By one's self there is no conflict; therefore, no resolution,
No struggle, no calm, no peace, no relief, no love- makes us cold.

Red and white yin-yang,
Angels and Demons pass by,
Highway median.

Your eyes hide your lies.
Your words conceal lies in them.
Your actions are truth.

A simple idea recorded on paper,
a circle in a circle—splendidly taper.
Like an egg in an egg—forever fertile.
Like a phoenix’s birth, emerge from the kindle.
With each welcome to life comes a new lesson;
with the experience of yore as your weapon.
Continue with the task to chisel the tip--
ceasing only to rest-- 'til that spherical disc
announces a new day. We can develop
a new way to refold the envelope’s sealed note.
The poem you have enclosed has your aside--
“Your Attention: ‘A simple idea’ is inside.”

The intersection of air and aroma,
together brings sustenance and nostalgia.
That air, which once helped you breathe, now clogs your throat,
like a seafarer wading without a boat.
Epochs passing, as a lost love’s scent batters
the mind’s shore, once more sentient life scatters.
Here and now is lost, forgotten touches felt,
as waves of her sweet laugh dull any din dealt.
Like déjà vu she’s there then gone, now forlorn--
roused from the dream, which floats away before long.