.
Backward-man loves his dog.
Ties him up before and after
His walks, likes to goad his pet
Too, speaking as the weather wails
And howls then dog looks down,
Sad on his master dumbfounded.
A chain is worn as it scrapes
The ground connecting dog
To his master.  They both love
The sound of it hissing as it strikes
The concrete pathways, sometimes
Man and dog feel free, not a part
Of each other, the chain may break,
And fear is for forks in the road,
The rusty pockmarked grip of his links
Have always been there on walks
Ahead and behind though it makes
Things confusing as if in a dance
And sometimes they wonder which way                                                      
They might end up after all—
And when the dark and golden
Rope, as always, is finally tied
To some old fruit tree, the man
Is happy his dog has both sun
And shade, but also has joy watching
Dog beg for ripe apples he cannot
Reach.  Some people might come
To think that dog thinks those apples
Are not for eating.  Everyone loves
Fruit, don't they?

Backward-man built his dog
A house as cold as a three-
Storied barn, out of things
He could not afford, things much
Too good for dog to not care
About, maybe man built dog's
House for himself, he cannot
Really impress his dog.
Backward-man likes to think
He knows what dog is saying.
Barks and whimpers have deep
Meanings, 'world is a good place,'
Dog says, but when pooch says,
'World is cruel,' crying, disobedient
Whines gets him a serious kick
Out of old anger from backward-
Man.  And man can be a hell-
Hound on his own, the way
He twists and unravels the things
He needs, like truth and food
And love— that goes without
Saying for backward-man hates
His woman, but loves his dog.

I waited for an elevator
It was an exceptionally long pause,
And there was a group of three arguing
Over the meaning of a clause.

I knew the answer to their query,
But questioned if I should reply.
Social stigmas can be strange
So I decided to be shy.

They searched their minds,
They racked their brains,
And I just stood there -
The answer boiling on my tongue.

My elevator arrived just then,
And I reluctantly stepped inside.
The doors closed slowly, slowly,
And I heard their voices die...

...So it is with my faith.
Many people are searching
And I have the answer,
But I am too afraid to speak.

So I step inside an elevator,
And lift myself above their problems
Pridefully rejecting the searching
Of those who need an answer.

Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.

Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?

These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To the most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.

My life is filled with pain, and light hides away from me.
I awake to anguish and only angst of my soul greets me.
Hope has proved herself an invention of imagination - - I look for her, but she never reveals even a hair.
Like the wind, she echoes around but never penetrates my being.
I am like a mongrel dog seeking food even from the refuse bags - - always seeking but never finding.
I lament a sorrowful song for myself for no one comes to comfort my aching soul. My soul is like the ever-thirsty desert soil that is ever ready for rain.
It hungers and thirsts but is put to shame with each passing moment.
My life is filled with sorrow, and unlike a caged bird, I cannot sing.
Like a seedling at the mercy of the heavens; the scorching sun and watering clouds, so is my soul at the mercy of my deliverer.
I await an arrival that if made manifest, offers eternal hope.

Crystal sparkles—
From within, with ores,
Mineral, quartz, precious
Commonalities from earths
Core.  Wind has attempted
To make shy marks— falling
Sorrowfully short and water
Has edged and smoothed
By centuries too of trying.
This then was their show,
A kind of immortal love,
Everlasting by its trials,
As even the sun knows,
For a ley line, etched so fey,
Runs each wild orbs circumference,
Separates moss from clean stone,
Tracing the path of a star.

Her long manicured fingernails were deeply painted  red,
one would think  it was just a little ago ,had they let much blood.
Her dark painted eyes lend the uncanny look of a wily spider,
but her wild, heart he felt, beats passionately against his chest.
Visibly intoxicated, she said his 'words taste like mellow wine'!
Like in a duel, she was crystal gazing what would eventually happen

Would the wizard have his way,win over the spider woman?
Or is it the spider woman who'd finish her prey,after mating as usual?
"In the labyrinth we are," he calmly poured the heady wine yet again,
"We live once, there isn't any way out,let's enjoy this bargain
who enticed and brought us face to face is nowhere to be seen
Don't bother, play the game, forget the goblet of poison, then it's fine"