as the oak is always the acorn,
so the poem is always the word,
no matter, how decimated       the tree,
no matter, how faded
the word,

inside resides, the tree, awaiting  the catalyst.
inside resides, the poem,
awaiting the esprit.


always, the essence remains,
embedded...  
always, is the outcome, foreshadowed...
etched in, by a code,
known, only in it's base intricacy by one...
the creator.

I cannot sleep in peace anymore.
I know that when I wake,
You will be gone once again--
And all that will be left is your sweet voice,
Whispering in the back of my skull.

If I die in this moment
back arched and brazen
your cursed name like nightshade
upon my ruby lips
will my sin be forgiven?

If I'm still here tomorrow
alive in loves echo
all things returned to rightful owners
familial harmony restored
will I be forgotten?

The cuckold sits with empty pride
at all that's on display
he does not yearn for awful truth
'bout where she is today.
he dreams of travels far and wide
and promises the earth
he knows not that his dreams are lies
a source of lovers mirth
when she returns as day goes dim
he'll try to light a spark
he does not see that it's not he
who owns her weary heart.