He smiled like it was the last time,
And I knew it, though I didn’t ask why—
The air between us shifted,
Unspoken, like a secret the sky keeps,
Just for a moment, before it fades into silence.

His words lingered like a whisper caught in the wind,
Unspoken yet understood.
We were two fragments of something infinite,
Touching only briefly before slipping through the cracks of what could have been,
But in that brief pause, everything felt complete.

A tinpot tyrant built a tower tall,
clad in gold and granite and all.

This motte and bailey mocked the skies,
mocked the peasants who’d helped him rise.

Reflected in wide moat’s black waters
he saw a king or khan — not the paupers —

and ruled his lands to rack and ruin
until he faced his own perdition.

The tyrant’s chiseled name fades away
dissolving with each rainy day.

All that’s left of this despot’s schemes:
the wreck of his peeling gold leaf dreams,

this tower the barest token of his trying will
upon that lonely bald abandoned hill.

Now none remember the tyrant‘s name
whose broken tower was built for fame.

Up hiking on a hill that once housed a king
whose golden age had gleamed long ago:
His former realms filling all that I’m seeing
but little trace of him now, just shadows.

Standing alone, his abandoned throne,
overgrown with brambles and weeds
that crack its old stone, unbemoaned,
while the vines spread more of their seeds.

Many years later (or less?), a hiker will pass
up and down this very same hill
and look back on us past, wondering at last
why our gilded age didn’t last like we’d willed.

Better to lay your spirit low.
Don't upset the ones who like you quiet.
And when your spirit freezes on the window screen,
The birds will watch the frost softly fall off into the snow.

In the bleak winter
under hurrying clouds,
the wind blowing, bitter
gusts through trees’ barren boughs.

A small house: Its nooks
in new Gothic style
once housed the old books
of a forgotten king for a while.

It had been a library,
a place filled with words;
now all that here tarries
are the winds and the terns.

Its glassless peaked window
looks out on the sky
to waters that flow
by the small palace hard by.

The window is incised
in stone shaded gold —
a warm tone that belies
its touch that is cold.

The red palace is crowned
in gold and white marble.
They shine out, gowned
in hues that spite winter’s pallor.

Now blue waters and birds
add color to the scene
that fills this blank window
with nature’s stained glass serene.

This house has stood waiting,
empty in wintriest times —
now it’s filled by nature’s painting
brushed in hushed hues divine.

A cobblestone road
in a dark night dyed with woad.
Faint glitter under pale street lights.

Icy blue fog in the late night
turned electric by the passing lights
of rumbling cars that rush on by.

They leave their streaks of LED beams
that quickly fade as if a lost dream.
The night watches with a hint of a sigh.

I was chasing a perfect picture of myself
till now
Fooling myself, I thought the outward was the answer
Realizing the impermanence of our bodies
Sends warm shivers and prickles down my spine.

Where one is fighting gravity
Another one is fighting life itself
One may embrace poverty
Another one may struggle in rich hell

As strong as grief
The body will let go
Our minds repeat
The patterns ever-slow

This night's embrace
May only cause surrender
The outward image
Dissipates in madness

And only thing alive -
Quiet awareness.  
What's missing?
Our joy in hearts -
Therein lies only sadness.