Set upon a walk I did,
Through my hometown,
Silent in the cold.

And as I walked as I did,
I passed by such a mortal sight,
A garden dead,
Which once bloomed in twilight.

And shed a tear I did,
Yet of sadness not,
For I know new flowers will bloom again.

Today, September 27th, will have been my father’s 80th birthday. Eighteen years have passed since his departure, yet his memory remains as vibrant as ever. I recall with fondness the countless lessons he imparted, the guidance he offered so effortlessly, and the unwavering integrity he instilled within me.

Though he is no longer physically present, I feel his presence in the values he left behind. His love for his grandchildren was boundless, and they, like me, miss him deeply. As they prepare to become parents themselves, I can’t help but wonder how he would have guided them through this new chapter.

As I approach the age my father was when he passed, I find myself grappling with my mortality. The uncertainty of the future can be overwhelming, and sometimes, it feels like I’m merely going through the motions. Yet, amid this introspection, I find solace in the memories of my father. Every aspect of my life seems to echo his influence, reminding me of the man he was and the legacy he left behind.

Perhaps it is fitting that his memory should be so intertwined with my journey. His love, wisdom, and unwavering spirit continue to guide me, even as I navigate the uncharted waters of my own life. And as I look ahead, I find comfort in the knowledge that his legacy will live on through me and through the generations to come.

there’s a great divide -
between the anatomy of my brain,
and the fluidity of my mind;
i struggle to make the crossover,
for i must advance in phases
in between their flimsy makeovers:
in, and out -
then back in again.
the brain is humbled by its own mortality;
the mind boasts of an eternal life;
both petrified by rancid thoughts
of yesterday -
and the day before that -
and the month before that -
and the years before…

as i regress -
slowly, and infinitely -
i long for my natal mind,
and a tougher cranium.

When I die, don’t look for me in the stars,
Look for me in my words.
Look for me in the books that line the shelves,
The letter “R” and the letter “E—"
And in every word you see them,
Please think of me.

Look for me where I’ve walked
And where I’ve never been.
Look for me in sadness, and I’ll be there...
But look for me in joy, too, won’t you?
Since they’re both so beautiful,
And both so true.

When I die, come look for me here;
Words won’t just disappear.

ready or not,
here i come.
count your blessings,
find the sum -
of all the tears
that’re due to flow
from a corner of your heart
you didn’t even know
existed before;
now open the door;
embrace your mortality -
let it purge your core
of all the notions
that vexed your spirit, and,
twisted your mind, well -
not anymore.

i’ve come to show you
the only way out;  
‘take it or leave it’ -
i’m leaving with you,
or without.
have you no clue  
how profound the disease is? -
it’ll take a while
to pick up the broken pieces.

sleep shall be but a
fleeting dream.
oh yes,
it’s a wicked scheme.
i’ve come to search your soul
like a sleuth;  

i’m your fateful reckoning -
your ******* moment of truth.

Beneath the rotted floorboards, time pulses,  
an arterial thrum of root-veined clocks.  
They do not tick for kings, nor bow for breath,  
but coil their echoes deep into the loam,  
dragging splinters of once-wooded oaths  
into the mouths of worms.  

What is time here, but the taste of damp?  
But the drag of green shadows across unblinking stones?  
A language older than lungs,  
a song of split seeds whispering their secrets  
to the weight of a thousand buried steps.  

Above, the weightless still mvoe,  
mistaking hours for thresholds,  
grinding moments into calendars  
as if order were a thing the earth might honor.  
Their laughter carries, thin as copper wire,  
breaking against the stone’s unhurried shrug.  

Here is the truth:  
roots keep the time,  
counting each second by the shade of moss,  
each century by the rise of the hawthorn's spine.  
And we are nothing to it,  
fleeting as the rain on uncarved stone,  
as brittle as the leaves  
crushed under their own arrival.  

I laid my ear to the ground once,  
and the earth opened a crack of sound—  
not a scream, but a swallow,  
a voice neither cruel nor kind.  
It told me this:  

"Do not fret your passing.  
Even your dust will kneel  
and grow itself into shadows.  
The clock of roots will claim you too,  
a heartbeat winding down  
to something soft and green."