O.ne.             .is
N.othing.     AND
E.verything.   is.
                     .O.

A cricket is steadily chirping at the edges of suburbia,
A rythmic monotony so subtly harmonized by the nearly inaudible pitch of a low buzzing transformer.
An occasional droning of engines and rubber wheels on pavement joins the chorus, while the soft chattering of neighbors descends from a nearby window, mingled with laughter and microwave buttons, and the wind pushing through the leafy branches of backyard trees.
I quietly listen to the sounds that surround me, eyes closed, mind arrested in a state of suspended animation. I search for the sacred place of silence, where thoughts become nothing more than colors and symbols. A place where fear and sorrow and regret cannot exist. Only a sense of being. A place where the cricket and the power lines and the wind blown trees all gather within me, become me, and I become them. No separation. No categorization. No insecurities and no self inflations. Where no space resides 'tween the You's or the I's. Every man has this place, this power inside him. Every man is the Saviour who creates his salvation.

Stars fall from the sky
Like tears from the Angels
Who weep in the Heavens
And pray Love will save us.
Electric thought light,
Etheric vapors inflame us;
Casting truth on our minds
To reveal what enslaves us.
Holdfast through the night,
Our humility tames us.

Green and black checkered blankets
lie across plastic funeral chairs
atop tired, lime colored carpets.
An inatimate audience garishly
posed before a square foot of
precisely dug, freshly cut earth.
Someone hands me an olive tone box.
Sunlight plays off of the glossy marble.
His urn is heavy and cold to the touch.
Beside me a voice recites a prayer,
unsteady and choking on tears, as I gaze
emptily into the shadows of a nearby Oak.
Peacock feathers and rose petals
fall from shaky, sorrowful hands.
A teddy bear, an angel charm, five links
of grandma's rosary, a tiny wooden cross...
An offering of remembrance to join
him in his internment, moments of
meaning only to those who are left behind.
Sounds become soft, colors dull, time slows.
The Angel of Hope resides over the hillside,
a quiet, unwavering eye who guards
the souls of our tragically met youths.
Space and relativity become foreign,
as reality befalls my unprepped mind.

So tired of feeling helpless,
So tired of feeling low,
With a past this dark and loveless,
It's the only way I know.
I've been bent
And I've been broken.
Fell from the rooftop
To the floor.
Now I'm restless,
But I'm hopeful,
Tho sorrows stirring in my soul.
As I tumble through my darkness
Crying softly to myself,
I only wish
that you could hold me,
I think your love
may break the spell.

Many minds
Have lived
Through time,
And dreamt of
Other Worlds...
And that,
My Son,
Is how many galaxies
There are
In
  the
      Universe.

Through having nothing,
I stand to gain
Everything.
Which I intend
to be
an awareness
and a
mastery of
My Own Soul.
This requires a level of
honesty
That I have been,
thus far,
unable to share
with my own ego.
So there will be a shedding
of skins...
But if I am Only
moved
by and through
my heart,
Then what is supposed to
remain will remain.
What is supposed to occur
will occur.
And what is supposed to
ebb will ebb.

Sleep with Moon,
   Dance with the Stars,
        Rise with the Sun...
                   :)

I stand on the beach,
toes dug deep into the sand.
The skyline turns fuschia...
Then neon bubblegum,
Then fades to blush pink...
The bones of our past
Gather on the shore
Like stones on a riverbed.
I cry.
The wind replies.
She says, "Dream."
"Sleep with moon,
Dance with the stars,
Rise with the Sun."
I hold my breath
and lose consciousness.
Your voice guides me
through my darkness.
I wait.
The Universe replies.
He says,"Be quiet."
"I will provide."
I sigh.
And all is well with the World.