Tired of feeling those nerve endings
Telling me to give up.
Instead I will look at an azure blue
White polka dotted,
Marvelous brazen sky
And rewrite the telling of my
As re-energizing my soul
And the sky as a bold, spectacular friend.
We only try to escape,
The imminent doom
But closer the date looms,
Why do I die to live,
When I live to die.
The apocalypse of man
Is near and doomsday glooms,
Forever shall come
Like a whirlwind,
And his face frightened in glum
Lies within the heart of man,
The will to live.
What if I was surviving to die?
What if we're surviving to die? Think about it.
She looms large;
She feels sick;
We’re all subject to the unseen laws of nature
which loom about us like an imposing stature.
From "Simple Observations" ongoing writings since the early '90's
You weave your stories like the night,
stringing the moon with the stars;
the finest of pristine pearls,
threaded by twilight.
Weaving the finest Varanasi silk
with life as your celestial loom;
laying down gold- and silver-threaded brocade,
dormant gardens burst in bloom.
Your pen is the philosopher’s stone
turning lead hearts into gold;
manipulating structure in stunning stanzas,
inscribing on hearts in italics and bold.
Nodding in acquiescence
the sages of the ages,
will then add your magnum opus
to their papyraceous pages.
— The End —