No poet is dead
If the poet is read.
Between life and death
There is a reality
Beyond reality, it seems.
Poets live on
If only in a reader's dreams.

The Truth is often painful
Yet, truth is required.
We must face it head-on
For it cannot be denied.

When we look into an abyss
We see faces looking back.
Our humanity must accept
Some faces are long gone.

Our duty is to remember.

Back to you,
I will come back to you
If you will come back to me.
And we can meet

In-between.

Somewhere in the middle
Of love with no regret,
And promise to forgive
And to forget.

When I see you my heart is full as it expands.
It bursts open like an overripe pomegranate.
And I flush with heat as you touch my hand.
My emotions spill out like the ruby-red seeds
Dropping from opened fruit.  Sweet the taste,
As I feed you pieces of heart from my own hand.

May my ribbons of passion
Tie you up in pleasures
And bind your heart to mine.

Though we tangle each time
With sweet kisses that toy
With one another's hearts.

Bound through struggle
That knot the ribbons tighter
With each hand, lips, touch

And are fused each to each in the joys of pleasure.

I love you.
I do not like dancing around that thought.
It rattles like a pebble in my brain.
It becomes a stone in a wall of the insane.

But I love you and I am fraught.
What to choose?
The possibilities of me and you
Solidifies the brickwork of a windowless room.

I love you to my own doom.

There is just something about taillights
Whizzing past in the dusky path of night.
All are in such a rush as they drive fast,
And my imagination wants to follow
Wherever it is that they are going.