this verbal wishing well, appreciated,
a nut of good intentions but drives me
deeper into de-spare-ing  downing detentions,
for it is only the article's genuine genius,
that elevates the human spiritus, to godlike status

no ditty this, but a wail, shriek, for
human touch is gift so greatest,
that any day passing without
either, neither but both, 'tis one
truly wasted,
a deduction on our
calculus of inited^ human intuitions,
a failure of our greatest inventions

a subtraction of our
gainful living, a purposed ecstasy
our one and only inexact
measure of measurement
that defies pedantic notions of
things of weight or volume,
but extends our own existence

sans
the armies of embrace,
the electric elected syncing,
of the shocking sharing of
closing the borders of divided spaces,
a soft contusion, a realized illusion

a de minimus of our days,
a lessening of our lessons,
a loss of earning livingness,
a nail in our coffined basket,


and here to cease without surcease,
the elemental incalculable numbered
members of our total human races,
that so tragic in  a twenty four expiry,
that the bonding of affection goes
unexpressed...

offer you my armory of arms,
cleanse us both with showered kisses,
inform you thus of our emboldened connection,
voiding these lowlife separators of lineage divisors,
what matter color, gender, chosen god nomenclature,
any of this nonsensical human inventions for distancing
divested human beings from each other


tho eyes closed, and all our senses flaring,
when we confirm what we were born knowing,
there is nothing greater than the human touch


PostScript

my first and best poem of the day,
how it came to me goes unbeknownst,
but will practice what is preached
with any and all willing encountered souls,
and perhaps, come-end of day, will write,
once more, one more, re heaven on earth

7:02am
Tue Sep Thirty
Two Thousand and Twenty Five.                                                       nml

Moonlight’s bright tonight.
Let’s go outside and play
In the streets of the city.
Morning’s far away.

We’ll dance in the streets,
Race under the stars,
Staring into the eyes
Of oncoming cars.

They’ll tell us their wisdom
In archetypical style
Of the roles that we play
And if we survive.

The dogs of the city,
They howl and they fight,
Then fortune they share
For our hungry delight.

When morning comes early
With its fresh silken dreams,
We shake off the dust
Of what we have seen.

We’ll feel the warm sun
Wake our guarded souls,
To feed us again
As we make our way home.

Our lives have been spent
Living other’s requests.
Now is the time
For our own conquests.

The streets of the city
Are daring and sheer.
Come with me now.
Experience no fear.

Today we played, my friends and I,
In rain in the city streets.
We laughed aloud and teased our games,
Rendering our joy complete.

The sun came out and shared the town;
Seasons changed to warmth from cold.
Tomorrow, again I’ll meet my friends
To feel the water and the mood.

But tonight, I will dream of you.
To feel your voice in your breath,
And sense your eyes touch me
As I gaze into their thoughtful depths.

Moonlight plays in the city streets
Forming shadows as we run,
Confronting demons beneath the stars
While dawn in the distance reigns.

We dream we share our secrets
Indiscretions and hurtful pasts
Told as gilded tales
By immoral sociopaths.

I share to you with confidence
One of my poignant dreams.
A tale of stirring fantasy
Where images are not as they seem.

Passage waits beyond the gates
Its doors are silent still.
Before them lies with all its will
A sordid, chilling tale.

Cold snakes coiled on soiled paths
They spring in naked truth
Biting hard at every turn
Retelling their violent youth.

Poised to prove their stranglehold
On phantom victims’ crimes.
It’s here we hide the willing sin
We’ve accepted many times.

My days have served to comprehend
These cords of velvet sin,
Whilst night comes as a saving fury
To cleanse my soul within.

As dreams become reality
Our thoughts embrace their role
And we resist the curse of others
Playing mind games in our soul.

Within me stays this silent stance
A constant holding firm
Amongst the ever-changing days
And nightly dreams and thirsts.

In times of almost madness
We hear the willow’s cry,
From these nightly games of memory
When they’ve heard our apt reply.

My past I’ve viewed with broken heart
As I’ve walked the vacant streets
I’ve cleansed myself in daily rains
Praying for final release.

It is here I hunt for solitude,
And here I find my soul.
I search my heart within myself
To learn what I have always known.

If rain is baptism for repentance of sin
And sun the reward for what I’ve lost,
Stars know solitude only in silence
As dreams prove my freedom at last.

How does one tell another that he’s loved her since all those years ago and everyday since. She occupies my mind like raging tempest but even as the storm goes on I can’t help but find comfort. Her presence is that is an angel pure as the rain on a summer day. As beautiful as a sunflower in a field of roses. As these cold years go on I always mind my train of a mind right back on track to her. Alas I don’t know how to tell her even after these long dark cold years that I’ve loved her since the first day i saw her until now. I don’t foresee me ever not loving her.

Mr. Gibson penetrates my poem, my paining senses,
"When raw grief turns into aching music" by witch,
he notates my inundation (1), a summary succinct,
essencing my poem to its bare ***** cri de cœur,
it's comforting to be gotten, grasped, felt & taken,
for ten out of nine, times, when I compose there
is music aching in my muscles and in my perused
words, begging to be read in a thorough, careful way,
and he honors them thusly, and I am deeply touched,
at our conjuring conjunction of connection, a phrase
worthy of a poem in and of itself, but
let someone else,
perhaps him, perhaps you, write it, I am contented:

to be heard,
to be believed,
to be by, relieved,
to being understood
to be felt, given and +
taken, and given a great
musical measure of comforting…

in summary too,
here is where,
I thank you.



nml
9/12/25
5:15am

Why forgive,
yet never forgiven?
Guilty—but my mistakes
Burn like oranges in my scent,


No reversal fate to heal
In yin and yang entangled ,
Only  closing eye
and stillness—
all sea turned dry