The size of our suffer
Is relative to each other
Like gas between walls
It evenly falls
What fills our breath
Doesn’t seem to matter
Because between sickness and death
We choose the latter

In the night blooms the flowers..
Unseen by sunlight..
Shadows dance in the pale moonlight..
Blooming pedal's dusk towers..

In the chamber on the sea mountain side..
Flame burns sky blue...
Wooden floor kissed with golden sand..
The dreamers arrive soon..

The flower colors in the moonlight..
Mixed in with glowing silver rays..
Can't tell if they are blue or maybe a dark gray..
Soon the sun will award true color from the dying night..

The dreamers gather in the chamber by the sea..
They form a lighthouse of imaginations and dreams..
For the mind eye to open and see..
That the stars above are really part of you and me...

The bruise of your
sudden absence
is a tattoo my heart
carries proudly.
But bruises and tattoos
turn bitter when they begin
pulling triggers;
How many times must I
bleed for you?
How many times must I
swallow the feeling of hollow
and still believe you care, my love?
Your soul's a stranger
but for love's sake
I'll take the danger
and let you turn my heart
into a cremation chamber.

As a wealth came fact
While chipper bound in glory
That move fortunate aspiration
Nigh as yore would shine discretely again

Where they once knew Kilroy
Would drag through today highlighting frills
Along the way when even tomorrow golf score
Mesmerize this type of play or not a squire left today

There are four chambers in the heart
The right atrium receives oxygen poor blood
When you left I was smothered
Somehow the words from your lips had enough power to poison the air I inhaled
Leaving me struggling and aching to be clean of you and all our memories
The right ventricle pumps oxygen poor blood to the lungs
The pain of your absence spread like a virus in my life
My teachers were spouting information but none of it was teaching me
How to love myself again
The left atrium receives oxygen rich blood
I threw out the cigarettes you left on my desk and I rinsed you out of my hair. I got up early and drank my tea outside and embraced the cold air. The wind, so clean and un dirtied by your empty words and sticky promises, that its almost tangible.
The left ventricle pumps oxygen rich blood to the body
Six months gone and I'm not reaching for you anymore. No longer
Do I see you in my wrinkled sheets or the scuffs on my converse
I'm a lot lighter now
No longer do I have to carry your sad angry anxious dead weight on my sleeve
No longer do I have to use band aids to cover my wrists, but now to cover the scrapes on my knees from climbing mountains higher than I could've dreamed
And I've fallen in love with someone new
Myself.
She's great, thanks for asking.

Within this solitude,
I have grown in ways I never knew possible.
I have delved deeper into the caverns
of each chamber
of this sacred abode
we call the Heart,
and discovered there is no end..
It is a perpetually incessant journey.

I continue to swim,
propelled through this bloodstream, ~ this heart’s dream..
my tears becoming one with the ocean
within the vessel that carries me forth.

Guided by a gentle hand, the inward immersion continues..
It is dark.. warm..
it envelopes me.
I cannot see .. rather I feel,
moving by the sight of faith.

There is safety in this sanctuary,
the guiding hand a cord,
the darkness a soothing, protective womb.
I inhale deeply –
as I hear the voice whisper:
everything is allegory
      pain is a sculptor (it keeps us upright)
         love is a painter (his brush divinely guided)
            lust is a cello… (but what good is an instrument without a song to sing?)
and I am ecstatically transported to Tagore:
“I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument
while the song I came to sing remains unsung.”

I exhale cathartically –
Releasing..

It seems an eternity between the inhale ~ and the exhale..
a lifetime between each breath.

A voice fills the chamber of no sound
bouncing off the interior like weightless rubber.
The feeling of fatigue passes;
raising up in pitch the voice begins to choke.

The inhabitant of the chamber weeps,
wrapped tightly in its arms, rocking soothingly,
perhaps at the center in this chamber of no place.
Sickly, in the high voice of a child it wails.

There are no moments here, no passing time
memories of another left to sleep,
the chamber may only close its doors
and those inside may only know despair.