Every year this time
at the ending cycle of the sun...
hope walks again
along pathways of the heart.

An ancient dream
roots unknown...
a newborn
shall save the world.

The sun arcs south,
the bottom of the year...
a mother heavy with child
seeks her shed, a manger on high.

Three wise ones, three kings
brush the dust of long lost history off
its that time of year again...
time to rise and follow the star.

Shepherds alone on the hillside
sheep bleat, angels sing
forever witnesses to a miracle or a dream
a newborn saves the world.

Her thoughts were on eternity
as she took me softly, warmly
between her thighs.
No goddess this
but a woman in her hour.

You really don't think
you're just your ego,
do you?
Reality isn't very solid.
just a mist of atoms,
themselves mostly empty space.
Reality is what we think it is.
At one time,
the stars were the campfires
of the ancestors.

Out of lust...
Out of desire,
Carefully, lovingly  
she chose the finest,
most supple leathers.
Length and width she measured them...
to size each finished braid.
Four she made, each stitched
with tearing eyes.
Weaving them together
she bit her lip imagining...
their sting on her buttocks.

She was a universe all her own...
self contained, alone.
She needed no man (or woman)
to make her whole...
Then why does he make her cry?

I have never been tempted
down the primrose path of reality.
In the back of an old wardrobe
is a lamp post in the woods...
along an ancient path
vaguely remembered.

Chronic pain's a bear,
the agony no one ever sees...
Looked at with doubtful eyes
no one knows the torture.

Chronic pain's a bear,
worse is the depression and the knowledge...
In the medicine cabinet are pills
that can end the pain or end it all.