A somewhere someone
Will someday somehow
Take us to somewhen
Somewhat with somewho.

I always loved a good mystery.
I just never realized how much I was one.
Do they even know who’s at home right now?
Do they know why that's a problem?
I always loved Sherlock Holmes.
But not even he could figure me out.

Are you a talker?
Or a listener.
I’ve always been both.
But I don't talk much at home.
I don’t talk much about it.
But I always sit there.
And listen.
While everybody serves their secrets.
Pouring them.
Spooning them
on to a platter.
I listen.
I might be breaking inside.
On my fourth sleepless night.
But that doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter?

I don’t know how to talk anymore.
About things that make me seen.
It comforts people.
To think they know me.
When really.
They don’t know anything.
I’m just a stranger.
Who collects their pain.
You talk to me and I lift that weight.
Tell me.
Do you feel lighter when you walk away?
Yeah.
Told you so.

So here I am.
Because I have nobody to turn to.
At the end of the day.
Except for you.
Who I love far more than friendships allow.
But not quite as a lover.
Who sees me as more than just a helpful tool.
Who understands that I too,
Suffer.
You just get it.
I just get you.
I don’t know..
But maybe you feel it too.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
This is love.

The Sphinx
Methinx
Takes flight
At night.

Fast headlong I now fell ,
a hole in dark night sky ,
through diverse strange emotion ,
left alone , outside of Time .
☆
Stranded , unveiled and motionless ,
a searing red blinding light ,
rendered my chest torn apart ,
by a figure in black , out of
sight .
☆
Though feeling no base
emotion ,
there was a demon of fear ,
so prayed I sought my deliverance ,
from this being of anguish and tears .
☆
Was I summoned to awaken ?
have access to these works ,
by one lone hidden blind eye
and a chariot of thunder and verse .
☆
But something stood behind this
temple of judgement and pain .
The Sun , the Moon and a field of wheat ,
marked where that hidden door lay .
☆
Symbols rose up from the sea ,
a vision of numbers and sound .
World shifted from black , red to white ,
overwhelmed as the first scroll unbound .

Fog and mist rising,
And then disappearing behind the peaks.
Fog and mist rising
From the lake as if
The water itself is burning beneath its lurky surface.
Fog and mist rising and dissolving into the meadows,
Painting the grassland in grey and white.
Fog and mist rising and nestling in the deodars,
Reflecting the icy surface of the water in its vapour.
Fog and mist rises higher and higher than the mountain peaks as if teasing the ***** of the hill.
Fog and mist rising and tainting the hillside until nothing is visible,
Not even the roads in haunted small towns.
Fog and mist rising from nowhere and covering the hills
In blue and grey and white.
Fog and mist rising like an old curse after the rainfall dances.
Fog and mist rising and then disappearing
behind the peaks,
Where there is only the open sky.

Life is like a grab bag full of mystery...
The hand goes in and feels around
The tingling on the fingertips says pick
The mind says, stir it around some
The fingers grasp an item and feel it
What is it?  Is it nice? Is it pretty?
Is it in one piece or is it broken?
Is it what I've been looking for?
Will it disappoint me instead?
My heart beats fast with anticipation
Also with a stream of fear, should I?
Do I take it out to look or drop it back in?
I choose to drop the item back in
Should I stir it up again and choose?
Oh my Lord, what do I do?
What if it will break my heart?
I take out my hand and sit back
I stare at that mystery bag and think
What if I choose not to take anything?
Will I be safe and sound then?
Nothing to cause my fear or dread?
No broken heart
Who wants a mystery in life anyway?
I do...

Crow’s caw,
Wind’s whisper.
The muted bell
In the old church tower.

Moon’s rise,
Clouds veiling.
Distant voices
Chant in unison.

Night’s chill,
Breath clouding.
Feet tread softly
On leaves’ rust carpet.

Robed wraiths.
Faces masked.
Dread creeps o’er me
As they pass me by.

Now silence,
Air so still.
All sight shrouded
By a mist’s embrace.

Art is a shadow

play of life, both cannot be --


understood deeply.