The clock ticks on, the hands forever round,
Seconds escape, as hours glide swiftly by.
A rhythm that we never shall confound,
Our fate unknown beneath the endless sky.

When will it end, our fate in stone is sealed,
Meters below, where time no longer sways.
Love, fleeting, unless immortal revealed,
It fades like dreams at night’s forgotten gaze.

Without the care, it slips from our embrace,
A distant light, dissolving in the mist.
And all that’s left are memories we can trace,
As time erodes the lips we once had kissed.

But love can find its form in endless streams,
Immortal in the quiet of our dreams.

——

Shakespeare sought fame to make his love divine,
His words eternal in a mortal hand.
But mine resides in realms that can’t decline,
Where neither time nor fame may take a stand.

When stars burn out and silence fills the skies,
My love will rest in voids beyond decay.
Untouched by man or time’s elusive lies,
It lives within the endless dark to stay.

In the name of love..
in the name of   the Value
you bring to the family

In the name of  just how  good
you can make Grandfather feel
on that worn-out, old brown chair

What were you when he started...  four?
He said he loved you
He said this is what love looks like

And you took it into your little mouth

And in an instant
a sweet little, innocent child
became an un-feeling, little product

Of the un-feeling  love of man

I truly think our souls
Are eternally intertwined.
I will find you
And love you
In every lifetime.

This...  or that..
the pull of this world
and its long supply
of disappointment,  is strong

I shall Reframe my Journey
almost continually

There is a swirl..  a rising
line, taut..

before limply settling
back down onto the water

There are moments  in time
that live forever

There is a time within
those moments;
I never truly had
the chance  to live

There is a Journey to reframe


I will find my life again,  
   somewhere

Buried deep
within that framework

Was it a bid adieu, or merely the beginning of an infinite rendezvous? A quiet vow, sealed in silence, to wander back into the refuge of dreams where our moments linger—beneath the timeless tree that sheltered our whispers, on those solitary benches, along endless paths where our footsteps etched fleeting eternity, as if echoing our own unfinished story. To trace the delicate decay of fallen roses, decipher the faded whispers of “miss-you” notes, and relive the quiet intimacy of entwined hands. To seek the warmth of embraces and rediscover the timeless rhythm of those coffee-laden moments, where losing ourselves in one another was the only truth we ever needed.

bright burgeoning
blossoms sprout
beautifully into
flummoxed
flowers
with maws
ushering manic
avarice greedily

flummoxed
flowers feast on
fields feverishly
voracious
verdant
vines
that travel
vehemently

soaring sun of
speaking seeds
singing songs of
springtime sempiternal
softly, sharply, savagely . . .

-                                        I've spent so many hours
                                         underneath this sky,
                                                         Lamenting,
        The days between pass by me
         one by one, ah,
         Unrelenting,
                      They've all been the same,
                                       You see,
                Since you left this world behind,
      But I look for you in the starlight,
                    As your voice plays in my mind.

Beneath the rotted floorboards, time pulses,  
an arterial thrum of root-veined clocks.  
They do not tick for kings, nor bow for breath,  
but coil their echoes deep into the loam,  
dragging splinters of once-wooded oaths  
into the mouths of worms.  

What is time here, but the taste of damp?  
But the drag of green shadows across unblinking stones?  
A language older than lungs,  
a song of split seeds whispering their secrets  
to the weight of a thousand buried steps.  

Above, the weightless still mvoe,  
mistaking hours for thresholds,  
grinding moments into calendars  
as if order were a thing the earth might honor.  
Their laughter carries, thin as copper wire,  
breaking against the stone’s unhurried shrug.  

Here is the truth:  
roots keep the time,  
counting each second by the shade of moss,  
each century by the rise of the hawthorn's spine.  
And we are nothing to it,  
fleeting as the rain on uncarved stone,  
as brittle as the leaves  
crushed under their own arrival.  

I laid my ear to the ground once,  
and the earth opened a crack of sound—  
not a scream, but a swallow,  
a voice neither cruel nor kind.  
It told me this:  

"Do not fret your passing.  
Even your dust will kneel  
and grow itself into shadows.  
The clock of roots will claim you too,  
a heartbeat winding down  
to something soft and green."

Years’ worth in our days swirl in our thoughts of lovely hands clasped in ours with no resolve of ever letting go.

Though the fates and sanguine melancholy conspire to break the bonds nothing can keep this sight from being enthralled

shall he, happiness dancing waltz with the sea, ever forget?

The tempest-swept shore of unyielding grace remains true to the beacon, be it in the peaks or prairies; a promise,

no matter how trampled still blossoms without the acquiescence of seasons, be they winter or spring,

until the day a tombstone is offered and a coat rack for weariness to hang,

no smiles will eternally be wasted on a frown as is with fear will be on Pennywise the clown.

We are here, and we are now until we become yesterday, our hearts unbowed

And yet, long after light has left times eyes, and last fogging breath has been drawn,

the echoes resound, love, unyielding, seared into the skin of eternity.

Strands of flesh, a promise, binding lives that once strobed like starlight, the universe chants with shared joys, sorrows, and dreams.

For every stumble, every fracture, every tear that pelted our time, we rise, reforged in the fires of devotion’s heat.

Love is no fleeting gale but the tide that shapes continents, despite the world’s cruel dissonance, harmony prevails.

And when the final curtain falls on this fleeting stage, let it be known we did not merely survive but thrived, kindled.