Evergreen, or nearly so
The last rays of light broke
Through little branches and
Whether we admit it or not
We put forth great effort
Just to conceal what's inside
Our own minds

sometimes my problems feel so big
like they'll just about swallow me up
but sitting among the sycamore trees
makes me feel like i'm good enough

i can tell the trees all my secrets
whisper them into the bark
the leaves and the branches won't tell on me
even after the forest gets dark

the forest is filled with magic
a quiet magic most cannot see
i hope that the power residing here
also has a home in me.

nothing will be sold today. the rain comes and
no one will see the neon signs in the mist.
the cities of steel and glass
are merely sandcastles at high tide.
helplessness, our human nature.

still, no worries,
in the minds of children, soothed by
their mother's sing-song,
or strangers sharing their first meal –
yi is cooking ramen for everybody,
while the finnish girl just finished her story
about her grandfather and his eleven siblings.
it's a beautiful day.

Failing at a game,
You did not even wish to play,
Conscripted into reality,
Without a say in such an act.
Play the game,
Or lose it all.

there are some days that I cannot fathom
the anguish another individual must feel
to openly hurt the ones he loves for attention
when we sit here (cowards)
denying our own reality to make ourselves
feel better lying down next to strangers
fading away my heartbeat ceases
until i can comprehend something other than
mistakes painted in opposition to the universe
or how i miss your touch most days
feathering blushing hues fading fast
in the sunlight these are the days
i miss you most when the memories i hold dear
pigment themselves vivid in my pastel routine
my easel is no longer in a home
my art is no longer stagnant on a wall
it is
walking
(talking)
breathing
crying right in front of me
walking away from me
in the distance now
those days i do not understand us
or what we have become
i reflect on how seasons transition flawlessly
without any form of communication
other than knowing of the passage of time
and that right now is time for change
(it is time)

How dare I sulk
over dust which has
slipped between my fingers
when poppies are rattling
in damp air
when daises smile up
beaming at their sun
clover and grass gleam
green and iridescent;
the dust which I lost
panged me so to no
avail until today I saw
this was the food
for early June creation.

the sound of their distinct caws
     ebb and flow with the tide

their majestic swoop earthwards
        is rewarded with morsels
                      of fried fish

we morph into polka dots
                         of movement

as we gather beneath
            the breath of their wings

inhaling blue notes
          salt dancing on dry lips

limbs long since surrendered
             to sun bleached sands

the rise and fall
          of a cacophony of voices
                        synchronises

with stories their eyes
                         cannot express