like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon
I raise my own tattered wings to the sky
cursing the inadequacies,
throwing away all doubts,
shedding my second skin of half-truths
thrown into my head
by words so keen on my own destruction.
by time that had stopped for three hundred days.
by a pen that seemed never ending,
inhibiting the thoughts within my head.

with a new smile in my eyes
I take a newfound strength in my arms,
lift up my wings
and bring myself into a new flight.

It’s not good to go back in time. If you do you’ll see everything you missed leading to a different way of living a life of misfortunate events.

When it finds a match,
the fire sends its regards
for the source of its warmth.

Where heat  
and breast floats gold,
I see the old sky new.

Why a mold
that charms cats and brothers
as the offender of kings.

What's more,
it knows
the Tarantula D'amour.

We all burn slow,
even if we die young;
so be it.

Well, let's live
today if not and especially
tomorrow doesn't exist.

When lips have sunk the ships of yesteryear
Man can grasp the mast and pull out the fear
Casting an artful arm beyond the horizon
set down a new game in a new love’s garden.

They’ve done it so; whenever lost and known
As the hull bows to Davy Jones’ show
Let him have it. He only sings well for the dammed
And our light lingers beyond the darkest sands.

In-between the notes
I find myself

In the midst of hope
I find myself

In the depths of the dark
I find myself

In the deepest spaces of my heart
I find myself

I find myself
In this beautiful art

When life comes apart
I find myself

what the cat understands
whether he knows that he understands it
or not is that in everything
there can be newness

I do not know when he does most
of his sleeping,
but I watch each morning
as he greets the house,
lifting his nose up to everything
familiar in order to remember
where he is

he traces each surface
with his paws
wanders around and around
until he lays and falls
asleep, then again
waking with the same
dedication to discovery

he sits in the same windowsill
every day, looking out
at the same things,
concerning himself only
with the present

Wedged somewhere between the aughts
In the early morning hours
What is it you hear?
Scatting of a bird
Or the ticking of the clock
Down the hall

The sun filters in, golden
Through wooden slats
Bitter coffee waits to be made
Sweet with cream and
Drops of maple

Home is slow and silent now
In this residual world
Where you rise and work
Busy yourself with tasks
Waiting to pick up where
Life left off

Spring is still here,
Blooming and cool
Soothing to the nervous spirit
You can still step outdoors,
Breathe in jasmine and fresh air
Humming, meditating, on newness

For now you follow a different routine
Connect, find comfort in what is
Around with new appreciation
Embrace a slow morning
And an easy evening
Sunshine and small escapes

I have the feeling
Of not knowing how to express
Any of what’s going on

But do I even know what I feel?

I have the feeling
Of letting go some big chunks
all of them belonging to the past

But can I even be sure they are gone for good?

I have the feeling
Of complete numbness at times
Completely overwhelmed by all and nothing

But isn’t numbness a feeling too?

I have the feeling
Of new things approaching me
In the sense of change in character

But does that mean this is who I want to be?