Life has those tearful Moments,
When U need a Shoulder to cry on.
U find there's no one around U
and your Heart ends sighing on.
Life has those empty Moments,
that keeps eating on U.
U see the World Colourless,
and U end up feeling Blue.
Life has those silent Moments,
When U need someone to talk,
But there's hardly anyone around,
So U end up taking a walk.
Life has those scary moments,
When U feel, U are not good enough.
U go around tipping your Hat,
but still that's not enough.
Life has its beautiful Moments,
When at Night, U stare up at the sky.
U Wait for the Moon to show up
So U can wave it good-bye.

Somehow
Stuck preaching from a throne of steel and
Spokes and wheels
Bound to machinery and cogs and breathwork apparatuses to assist in feeling chemicals fill your lungs You
showed me how to Walk
silent and
Listen
To the Woods
Trees
Two- and four-legged beasts of earth and Sky and
I
am made aware
In context of discrepancy and disconnect connect ed
How painfully
Truthfully and all-encompassing in harsh unforgiving reality
I
am
Dirt, and, soil, and peace, and, turmoil

If I could just love you as much as you loved me on days that i didn’t react to you,
I would hate myself- just a smidge less…
I would forgive myself for how I no longer get butterflies when I hold your hand,
Yet I can hear your butterflies flutter just as they did when we had our first kiss…
Just a few of the moments I’ve stolen from us,
All because I can’t seem to get over the things that have been stolen from me…

my father sat in a pool
of mid-morning sunshine
on the raised patio
overlooking the garden
an open book in his lap
the dog asleep at his side
the lightest of clouds
decorating the horizon
and a whisper of leaves
his only distraction

as i rushed to the kitchen
for a hastily made
better-than-nothing version
of a flat white
that i wouldn't even enjoy
only ten minutes to spare
before yet another meeting
i paused for a moment
to take in this scene
resplendent as he was
peacefully present
behind the radiance
of diaphanous lace
breeze-rippled curtains
suffused with sunlight

a pertinent reminder
of something which
i didn't have time
to consider

Why is pleasure measured in moments,
while work is measured in weeks or years?

Pleasures are like insubstantial fictions, sweet treats gone
in the tasting or perhaps flowers, that once cut, wither.
So don't be enthralled by fickle snippets of passion.

Work and service have the weight of reward,
by labor's honest toil, we fashion, forge and provide.

gilded a prison
in the moments of
yet was is