Downward a brink strewn with craggy rubble,
I, confounded by impervious haze,
Despair the convoluted path and stumble.
Slick, sable stones reduce me to my knees.
The glorious Pilgrimage beckons me:
“Rise and seek out yonder city of gold,
descend ye from thy safe promontory
And subject thyself to dangers untold.”
On bended knee, head bowed, I pray and plead
For provision and eased yoke -and trudged on.
Abandon all hope, and many concede,
At the wicket gate, where I near anon.
    Tenant of celestial city now.
    With robust garden, I reflect my plow

Every morning a beaming carmine penetrates my brain
unbeknownst to their perilous call
a smiling bird and a white heal all.

Violates me at my eyes
from green chasing lies
from wicked placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the stalker of stalkers that haunt my pre dream routine.

Every evening a lustrous crimson punctures my lungs
unbeknownst to their unsafe swath
a quiet bird and a paper moth.

Vexes me at my eyes
from yellow following lies
from haughty placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the lurker of lurkers that submerge my pre dream routine.

Every night a hazy velvet pierces my heart
unbeknownst to their loving provider
a dead bird and a snow drop spider.

Visits me at my eyes
from red moving lies
from stoic placed disguise.

Pencils of light at three trips
the finest sliver of silence you can imagine.

Since feeling is first, and syntax is lies,
To enscribe you, my darling little jay,
I would have to ask, "Is there any way?"
Not of mimsy guise and anything-dyes,

But of nоnce-nonsense and everything-sighs,
Keep these thoughts pastiche on a wayward bay,
And perhaps leave them, removed on display,
Entirely altogether?

You are this fool's  ". . ."
". . ." as  '. . .' but  ". . ."
Lea ve me ". . ." on, a . . .

A skip!         for,
". . .   &      . . ."    "can"t; f o r get
(love ". . .") and you,
". . ."

While crying in the moonlight,
The tears of icy cold.
Snow fallen lies surround me,
Trading rice for dirtied gold.

They know I have a weakness,
Achilles’ tendons found.
Fighting in my own Antietam,
Ignore the bloodied ground.

As one things ends another comes,
Start as I end another shift.
Feel so small in your surroundings,
Mammoths in the continental drift.

Buried in the secrets,
Not everybody knows.
Climbing Mount Everest in the winter,
Snow shoots back just as it goes.

Grasping hands I always miss,
Warming fingers turning blue.
True, I could not help me,
But I won’t make the same mistake with you.

it is often in the face
of adversity that people
flourish, pushing past
cement and brick to bloom

or so you are told–
the lion you find is not
filled with honey,
and only sand scrapes your tongue

its ribs do not yield at your touch,
they do not fall apart
in ivory waves as you
crawl into its thoracic cavity

no, it is but a decaying relic of god;
a carcass left in the dirt
and you can’t help but wonder
how such a thing ever roared

you are no samson, but you
let your hair grow out anyway
and hope to coax strength
from the maw of the forgotten beast

On a foggy dark London day
Strode Mr Prufrock, Alfred J.
He made many an allusion
About ****** confusion
Now he’s dead like Phlebas…ok?

Keats may’ve died of consumption
And Dante in his personal hell
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Or so I’ve heard them tell

Shakespeare’s mortal coil had shuffled
And Byron could a-rove no more
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Of that much they are sure

All of Auden’s clocks had stopped
Dickinson felt death in her brain
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Though it’s heavy as a ball and chain

Blake had entered Jerusalem
For Carroll, Wonderland beckoned
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Yet I wish I could any second

Miss Rossetti’s winter was bleak
Thomas raged into that good night
But no one ever died of a broken heart
At least not without a good fight