Thinking at the speed of light must be like –
Touching a popsicle under typhoid’s fever.
Could it be the scent of sorrow for someone else?
An error buried but burrowed? Borrowed?
I’d imagine, “it,” a bird at my sill
And resulting boot through the air;
Broken before(s), bludgeoned becomes,
So cracks the smile, so cracks the mirror,
So breaks and so becomes,
The speed of light.

Shattered souls.
Shattered hearts.
Prayers that sunk into the earth, when I uttered those words on my knees at dusk.
Endless hours...of begging and pleading with fate.
Fate: 1. a prophetic declaration of what must be.
Death:  1. extinction; destruction: It will mean the death of our hopes.
Attempting to resurrect the shambles of the outcome of what was meant to crumble.

Waking up stronger than the day before, every time the sun rises and allowing life to entrench my soul and flourish.
Content with the past buried, never feeling the need to breathe hope into it.
Salving the wounds into beautiful memories and speaking life into what lies ahead.

We didn't lose each other, we gave up.
Mostly out of selfishness, anger the vein that pumped the rage into explosion.

Laying the crippling words to rest and forgiving all that is attached to it.

Freedom, the joy of letting go...has taken ages off of my already old soul.

Goodbye.

I found a box of words today

In a corner of my mind

I think my brain tucked them away

In a place I'd never find

The box was black and dusty

Full of words I rarely use

I think my brain had hid them

While I suffered from the blues

Words like "hate" and "prejudice"

Words that hurt and maim

I didn't know the box was there

Now, I've found it just the same

Now, what to do with this old box

And the words that are inside

These are true words of avoidance

Words I guess I thought had died

I don't know what just made me

Go into this corner of my head

I must have eaten Mexican

Before I went to bed

But, now I have a box of words

I can not use or sell

And some I see are pretty bad

So, I guess it's just as well

I'll put the box away again

And I'll hide it in my brain

And I'll keep these dark words buried

For to use them is insane.

There is no place like home
Where our roots have grown
Where speaking is only limited
By the words that you can make
Where you can go where you want
Because someone is buried in Arlington
Where life is precious
And victory is sweet
Where God smiled and thought,
*"Oh my that sure is pretty"

They told me she died.
So I woke up in the graveyard of my dead dreams,
Took up my trusted shovel,
And like a good old country lad,
Decided to dig her up.

They told me she died.
But I knew they had to be wrong.
Why, there she lay, as unattainable as ever,
Smiling smugly from her coffin,
Mocking me with her fake omniscience.
For Death, may be a great leveller,
And make sceptre and crown
Just tumble down,
But not so her beauty.

They told me she died.
But how could i believe them,
After knowing her wicked wit of Solomon.
With which all her life,
She didn't let death so much as touch her beauty,
For she hid it so deep within,
Veiled beneath the layers of toughness
And faded tee’s,
That even a soldier camouflaging her scarlet skin,
Would be put to shame.

They told me she died.
But they didn't bury her beside me.
But by another man’s side.
Because he was man enough to ask
What i should’ve,
And now she lies buried,
As his bride.