How long I have been in the dark....

A fate less holy,
A mission undefined,
Heart that cries,
Tears that bleed,
The abysmally charged traveller
That I have become walking
Until tendons fade away,
So my knees have scraped
The fugitive hope of the ravine.

        The space of loneliness
        Between these shoulders
        And the tunnelling that
        Devours the necessity to seek
        Out a hope,
        Something to fight for.

Saving grace within the dark,
Because dark is not dark
Without the light to show
Its depths,
its attachments to the misery,
This Earth, home of humanity
Trampled by the inner search,
The strength of hope is the light
Of the world.

Oh but the ravine does not falter,
Its crescent flow like a carving
Knife to cut away any luminous
Idea, the idea that cannot die,
And we are all formed in the light
As we leap into the abyss
In a battle for the sanctum of the soul.

     Where is the philosophy?
     The ideal that love can conquer
     Love, faith of the child
     In the blind advent?
     From the origins of water,
     Many drown in the depressing
     Motion of the blind lights that
     Surround them.

Hope is not sterile,
The idea cannot die,
Familiar to the dark,
Because we overcome,
The obliterated redemption
Is but the whole of the world
Saying you cannot.
Confronting the sea as a rock
To the crashing waves,
Bewildered by marches on the darkness,
Battered and bruised,
At the edge of death,
Purpose is here as we open the light
And reveal the eyes we always had.

     Deep, deep into the dark,
     We have been thrown as swift
     Grenades of light, the explosion sudden,
      The sight revealingly hopeful.

And God is watching the children
He made from dust to confront
Ourselves in a battle of reflection,
Every mirror needs the light
To see the truth of themselves,
Here the nocturnal night
Fights for every soul,
Dancing at the depression,
The sadness of menacingly
Prideful elitism.

    Sweat, these deep meanings,
    Who wants to think on them?
    Ignorance, blissful warrior
     Of the dark,
      Death to the fire inside
      That fashions the sleep or hope,
      The individual loses that which makes
     Them, and here in lies the ravine
     And its war.

Outcast, fighter of the dark,
Depressed warrior,
there is a form of light
In the confusing shadows,
Away from that voicelessness
That does speak,
Shed the ancestral burden,
Leaping from one horror
To the next horror,
Reveal that which is hope,
When you from before when God
Molded you as a form of light,
And though you may think
That you are just a flash,
Remember that every star twinkled
Its light before the last gasp.

Come out and reveal
The fire that yearns,
Feed the hope as a fire
That swells, a fire that burns.
You are the instruments of new
Beginnings, that which
Was rejected, that which was cast
Away like falling winds,
Winds that bkew you to another day,
We pass daily from the darkness,
As if from sleep,
We battle now in the void.

And though we are small
In the vast darkness,
We shine as cosmically gifted
Luminaries, shining as
Fragments in the night,
Eternal hope, a form of light.

I follow the broken jasmine
In the path I know will lead me astray,
Did this huge distance away
From myself deceive my heart?

    I know that my lifeless eyes
    Have followed you here
    Among the Fallen inhabitants;
    I joined you in the abyss.

A wave of punishment daily
Gnaws at this strange ignorance,
My retreat into a dark innocence
Leaves me in a retreat inward.

    You are the dead flower in an
    Arched mystery, I know the path
    I have taken to you,
    Death has shown me how
    To walk its valleys:

Illusion or love,
Held captive by my mortgaged soul.

I cannot write this life,
In my mind we are a draft
Of footsteps with an infinite
Path of echoes that cannot
Be heard or remembered.
     Like rain on better days,
     We step in and out of emotions
     Toward places and moments
     That carve out the spirit.
People: they vanish in sorrowing,
The sun burns through the
Darkness of what I am writing,
And suddenly in this poem
I open eyes that see without
Seeing,
          The soul

Is an existence
                On many planes.

     I am not myself
As I walk on a path of gentle air,
       People become words
And I verse them into existing,
I sink my own pen in their soul
      And they speak in a forgotten tongue,
My eyes are open,
     The transparency of it all.

I assault the vertical experience
And shield myself from
The immobile life,
The prophet of nothing that sees
Through all the doubt and finds
Himself in another place,
I am an abandoned word.
     I see the fade,
The fade is an hourglass of lives
And images in the eyes of lost natures,
I burn, the sun burns, the words burn,
And the soul keeps its solitary
Path in a garden of feverish
Invention,
The mythology of the heart,
Infinitesimal phantoms
Walking in a mist of realised
Regrets, the soul is a martyr
To forever in a foliage of tiny
Deaths, between forever
And the moments,
A soul in solitude,
A conjunction of destinations,
The words are echoes,
The footsteps an evocation
Of the soul.

Reflections
          Reflecting:
The taste of April's melancholic grace
     On your lips,
Your touch like a drop
    Into the well of sorrows;
I reflect your veil of dark brooding.

     A hint of music
On the path of your footsteps,
      You dance to a tune
Tangled in the helix of the orchestral
     Candors,
I reflect your naked liberation.

The scent of ocean in your hair,
       The hint of the sea foam
As your presence is like
A crashing wave,
The weight of your living waters;
    I reflect your essense.

Along the graze of seasonality,
      I see a Winter fade
After the October,
     The sickles of my fingers
Harvesting your body;
                       I reflect your ***.

From the depths of mirrors,
     Like the sun kissing the ocean
Sending ripples along
   Her blue shield
Sending cosmic shivers;
     I yield to your mirror.

You can't finish Spring cleaning
because every old thing becomes
Inspiration for a poem.

2. Instead of planting that garden you
Promised yourself, you write about
Your metaphorical one.

3. Because you're a romantic poet,
You ruined your flowers by plucking
Each petal in a She loves me, she loves me
Not tirade.

4. Every stupid bird is a new poem.

5. April rains bring about the
Melancholic poem inside you,
And you love it!

6. Instead of playing with your
Kids outside, you write about
It instead.

7. Even though you are allergic
To everything, you take that stroll
In the park you write about
So often.

8. Spring's promise is really just like
The New Year's poem you wrote,
New beginnings and all.

9. While digging through your Spring
Cleaning, you find your old poems
And decide to post them on
Hello poetry.

10. The garage is a mess, nothing
Is getting done, but in the poem you just wrote
Is about the hard work it was.

11. You learn the name of
new birds and flowers to make
Your poem fancier.

12. And finally,
You really don't like Spring,
But its a season, and we're poets,
So yeah.

Poems, the consciousness of minutes
Plucked like corn from the ear
Of language,
Between the here and now
Of echoes reflection,
A door to everywhere and nowhere
At the desk,

An escape from the peoples,
From the abyss that fills,
From the sulfuric melancholy
Where unconquerable ruins
Lay at the foot of memory
Armed with an assault of words.

The beneficent metaphorical
Divinities of the moments we
Connect like spinning webs,
You, me, him, her,
They, poets and every one else.

We compact time ripping off
The facelessness of vanities,
Provokers of thought,
Erupting the sensitivity and
Stirring the pit of emotion.

Every poet must know a lover
To cut the cord from the ink
And commit to the experience
Of the realised, words become
What we have done.

Nouns, pronouns, adjectives, these things
Are tools to the inner soul,
We become prophetic and speak
The Fallen,
We know the children of dust
And ignite the realised poem
In each of them,
This is how poetry exists,
How philosophy exists,
And love,
And even hate.
And if these things don't exist,
Then I do not exist,
Neither do you.

Somewhere in the darkness
A prisoner of words begins
Writing the light brighter
than any under the sun.

The first of first, her hair in the
Motion as she flicks slender finger
With her eyes gushing in a half
Smile, the music on the radio,
The memory of Mother, everything,
Everywhere, poetry is life,
It writes itself!

And here in this decalogue,
Every love survives,
Every pain manifest,
Streaking in the heart the
Blood races to the fingers and
Bleeds words to paper.

Every poem is a sacrifice,
Time, energy, pieces
Of you, pieces of I
Scattered in the penumbra,
We become as crystalline structures,
Transparent translation of the
Spirit that burns.

Every man and woman
Writes the experience,
Life and its unique constellation
Of emotions, enormously
We must write the world,
The poem is real,
The images speaks itself.

Poetry is life,
Deserve your poem.

Under the new garden
A rain falls:

And the thoughts like birth,
Drops of life on life,
The cycle and it's seasons.

And repetition is insanity,
The rain does not stop
And a flood of thoughts drown
The hope of seedlings.

Hands still fresh of earth,
The lukewarm feeling of singular
Gratitude for such a small thing,
And a rain from God;
     Why drown something so
     Wonderful that fills me?

I do not understand,
Today was a good day,
         Nostalgic and scattered
         Anguished at the sky,
         The rain stops cold,
         A realisation forms;
      
         It is the action that is
         Pleasurable, the moment
         One takes to toil in the earth,
         The rest, like the seeds,
         Like God,
         Like the rain
         Is all just part of the garden.

Die into me,

Every kiss is a prayer
As I whisper a prophesy
         To your body.

          The night will keep us
As we constellate our passion.

I die into you,

      I await you on the other side,
There open my soul
      And read the inscription:

   He died a thousand times,
Reborn inside her,
    The Sacrificial Lover.

Though you are deep into
Your night and the Fade is closing
In,
And the walls seem to collapse
The air around you,

The dawn will come:

Birth of light
Antidote to the dark,
Burst into depressions
That softly take me away.
Hope is tomorrow,
A light of the moment,
The sun can rise on you now,

The dawn will come.

Throughout the soul
Petrified on a slab,
Awakening on the promise
Of phosphorus morning.

In the immortal moment,
Know of the dawn,
From Heaven even
Angels fall.

I am full of the perpetual water,
A thin mist forms around me:

Immense feelings hover here,
Joy on sadness,
Sadness on joy,
The manifestation of my
Drained consciousness.
    
    I am a living wound.

My wings splintered
Among the ruins,
Contained in this paradoxical shadow;
Nevertheless I further myself
Into this fading.

It is real the light,
I can see in from the shadows.

The delicate lips of time
Kiss my forehead diffusing
My ticking bomb,
Alas I am too far
From the clarity of happiness.

Life is a timeless matter
Where only the mist is real.