You, who thought,
You were strong enough,
To vanquish both life and death.
You known you were, silly you,
Man enough to love her the best way,
And that wasn't the right way,
Too much love is often a flaw.
Her eyes turned away from you,
Her heart freezed over forever,
Erasing the present into the past,
Your bliss has disappeared into time.
Sadly way of sneaking up on you,
Tricky way of helping you out.
You will always love her,
Tell her that you will.

I move south,
away from winter.

Middle-Tennessee
experiences
the longest streak
of sub-freezing days
in twenty years.

These two sentences
contain the story
of my life.
  - mce

My days are filled with nightmares
My nights are filled with day dreams...
*How ironic isn't it?

It's funny, isn't it?
How we get older
and watch ourselves become,
exactly what we said we'd never be.
It's funny.

Winding through a forest

Is a path, with as many branches,

As the trees to either side,

And this one doesn't try to hide,

But has never been given many chances.



And on it walks one man,

Walking all alone,

His head held high and mighty,

Though his hair is colored lightly,

And he shows an unusual tone.



And he keeps walking,

Through the forest,

Gathering up the fallen leaves

And growing thousands of new trees,

Helping it to become its best.



Bald and evil vultures soar,

Flying above the one man's head,

Trying to stop the rising star,

From letting the world progress so far,

Because they live to feast on the dead.



And he keeps walking,

With little regard to his foes,

Writing the truth in the tree bark,

Doing his best to leave a mark,

That will guide those through their lows.



And the vultures carry

Onward, Upwards, feeding on dead

Following that guilty man,

I bet this end you didn't plan,

THEY TOOK OFF WITH HIS HEAD

These things belong on a shelf
Like a bottle of tears that looks like a stuffed animal
And a pillow case that became a great transport of rage,
Amidst the dust and clutter
Runs my subconscious animal seeking blood, meat,
Retribution and the slightest gain
Through the wires of the human body
Cut and casually rearranged.

These things are purposed
As notches in a Grecian urn
Cold reminders of a worthwhile mistake
Taken astride and antiqued
For me, for you, betokened at my expense
Because I need to eat, occasionally oddly,
And when the stomach can’t trust the hands
Your clothing stays close to your body.

These things are like dresses on a library,
Dressing the dirt underneath
As life preservers full of water, full of wine
But these are situational traumas
And never lacking their angel wings
Defective and cuckolding self-esteems next to me
Hold hands at the bottom of the ebb and flow
Of human misery or ecstasy,

Just maybe it’ll hurt too much this time,
As revenge for my laughing at its brothers.

To face the world, a runt,
With such brunt and abasement,
Is to know ones place in the scheme,
Standing in the stream of frivolous
Happenings, this is the dance,
To be danced, this is the play,
Yet, he has the ears of a king,
To jest with such fire is to be
Ferocious, not feeble, his mocks
Are mostly mirrors for the blind,
For madness is a known methodology,
How he revels round the sad theatres
Of the high born absurd, how he speaks
In tongues and with bold proclamations
Only taut whispers of wind would know?
He is certain that the spindle fates are real
And that lightening strikes purposefully,
Kingdoms will fall, as the sun will rise,
As the noble trees ring with ideologies,
Without travails, he is always arriving,
To sleep out of doors, this is his way,
The path, the masted ship of fools.