i could tell the time at an early age;
yet, i could never tell the misery
of the hour hand of the clock -
that lies in wait...
for what i imagine,
must feel like an eternity,
at the mercy of the minute hand
to finish a full round -
as it is, in turn,
at the mercy of the second hand;
only to move but a
fraction of an inch on its axis:  
so it can be worthy of its name.

surely, it’s the loneliest of
the three hands;
yet, perhaps, also the wisest -
for it knows what’d happen
if it ceases to move -
even for an hour, as it were.
you see, the illusion of a moving clock
is maintained only by the hour hand.
the minute hand could stop for a minute -
and we wouldn’t mind much;
the second hand could stop for a second -
no harm done;
but if the hour hand stops for an hour -
well, we’d notice.

i can never really tell the time now;
just the hour in which i exist.

To love is to paint
delicately dragging your brush across a canvas
being deliberate with every flick of your wrist
every stroke gentle and planned
and when you make a mistake, you don't throw away the whole canvas
no, you pick up your brush and paint a happier picture over it

I've been afraid to paint for some time now.
I always jump into a painting with a happy picture in mind
but my end result is always the same
groggy. messy. not good enough.
maybe I'm just not destined to be a painter

When will the mornings feel different?
When your name doesn’t linger in my first thought,
When the light through the blinds doesn’t whisper your face,
And I rise without the weight of your absence?

When will the nights turn soft with forgetting?
When the pillow cradles only sleep—
Not the ghost of your laughter, your voice in my ear,
Not the echo of all that could never be?

When will the music play untainted,
A melody not stitched with your shadow?
When will I stop wondering if you’d love this song,
If its rhythm might stir something deep in you,
And silence the urge to send it your way?

When will the sight of your favorite team
Be just a score, a game, a fleeting moment—
Not a trigger pulling me back
To the sidelines of my unspoken longing?

When will the world stop speaking your name
In everything, in everyone, in places unknown?
When will my heart stop aching for answers
That it knows will never come?

Maybe the day will come.
Or maybe it never will.

It’s not that I want you gone from my head—
But I want you closer, real, mine.
I love you, I miss you,
And I know I always will.

I had forgotten the language of fire,
How words could burn and rise, inspire.
For years, my heart lay cold and still,
A hushed and empty, barren hill.

But then he came, with a quiet spark,
A light in the void, a song in the dark.
His presence a key, unlocking the door,
To parts of myself I’d lost before.

He stirred the ashes, he fanned the flame,
Awakening passions I could not name.
Poems poured forth, creativity bloomed,
A garden of love where shadows loomed.

Not since sixteen had I loved this way,
So fiercely alive, so willing to stay.
He reminded me of what it could be,
To love without fear, to simply be free.

But now he is gone, his light withdrawn,
And the fire he lit flickers at dawn.
My pen grows heavy, my heart turns cold,
As the warmth he gave begins to fold.

He was my muse, my radiant sun,
The source of the art my soul had spun.
Now every verse feels brittle and thin,
A hollow echo of what might have been.

Still, I thank him for the time he gave,
For waking the parts I couldn’t save.
Though the flame may fade, the embers remain,
A whisper of love, a trace of pain.

The Blue Heron waits
In the water's flow,
Against the wind's blow,
Still and unafraid;
At peace.

The Butterfly soars
Free in the breeze
Beside moss
Through the trees;
Strong wings.

The river runs deep
Next to small streams
Against the current
Blue Heron stands
Content, and waiting
                for the Butterfly to land.

©KSS 4/2024