The moon kissed the forehead of the pond,
as trembling stars embraced its calm,
as if the heavens, vast and deep,
had found their home within its arms.

The marsh watched on with murky eyes,
laden with a heavy gloom,
no star had ever called its name,
no light had graced its silent tomb.

It whispered low, a voice of silt:
"Why must I drown in shade and hush?
Why does the sky refuse to rest
upon my waters, still and lush?"

The wind, a sage of wandering fate,
brushed softly past and dared to say:
"The less you swallow, the more you see,
for clarity holds eternity."

Yet envy wrapped the marsh in dark,
it clutched its depths, it pulled them tight,
it drank itself into the void,
and severed all from warmth and light.

The pond, so quiet, asked for none,
yet bore the stars within its chest—
and in its stillness, silver-clear,
it cradled time. It cradled rest.

Life is like a ticking clock,
No one knows how much's in stock,
No one knows what lies ahead,
No one knows when they'll be dead,

Life is a process not given clarity,
But no soul lives for all of eternity,
No soul is aware of when they depart,
No soul in here knows they're falling apart,

Life is so simple and yet it is hard,
It is hard to live it out with pure heart,
With or without these days I still live,
As for my heart there's not much to give,

Life is so cruel and that's just the rule,
Sometimes absurd I think I'm a fool,
Sometimes I wish things would have worked out,
Sometimes I cry and sometimes I shout,

Life is a path both uphill and down,
It is a pathway on which one might drown,
One better be careful and get a grip,
If on this dark pathway they wish not to slip,

Life is so short you better take note,
Take note of all the things you wrote,
The things you wrote may go down in history,
Though as far as I know they remain a mystery.

Pleasure seems only recognizable
after breeching the membrane of pain.
We were a beautiful catastrophe.
Sun after slashing rain.
Questioned by the sane.
Velvet and volatile.
Looking back at the stretches
of  blackened miles.
At all our infinite tries.
A sunrise and sunset were never destined to occur together.
You are my painful, passionate chance at never......

The greatest poem I ever wrote
was the note I left to a future friend,
a wish, I hoped, that would project
my hopeful mind, and sense of depth.

The greatest thought I ever spared
a future in a dream I'd shared.
A piece within a scene complete,
the place where mind and spirit meet.

The greatest step I ever took,
to take the time enough to look,
to raid my thoughts and scour my mind,
and on my trail my friend I find.

The greatest friend I ever knew.
The friend a thousand times consumed.
By glowing screen and jingling bell.
My friend, I wish, would be myself.

I see you—
Wild heart, tender thing
I see your earnest,
Your glitter visions, your radical hope.
I see you move with a twist in your heel,
A waltz between worry and courage,
A bold ballet of dreams.
I see your little visions, your treasure troves.
I see you,
Softened one,
Stitching these words to your heart,
Drawing the sun on our wings,
Innocent and radiant as ever.
I see you.

With love,

Butterfly

Stories nestled in my bones
are not silent storms.
My heart is haunted
by their primordial groans.
Yet so many scattered thoughts
go unknown.
Like the frantic way
autumn leaves are blown.
What decays becomes wisdom
for another day.
Skeletal stories now, the flesh of us
is gone.
Even though we loved from the core
of our jagged bones.
Human life seems just an agonized attempt
to be heard.

Some rely on cleaning machines  
the vacuum to **** up the dust,  
and one to scrub floors gleaming clean  
replacing same when those get bust.  
A hammer, these, to crack that nut  
as I think of the leccy price  
you can hear me go tut tut tut
cloth, mop and pail for me, suffice.  

No smart sweat-top, nor cut off jeans  
but **** nekked I swing my ****,  
to make dust motes fly in sun beams  
my mind flies with these, as it must...  
momentarily, till I'm pushed  
by brush in hand and in a trice  
I'm back to Earth to strut my stuff  
cloth, mop and pail for me, suffice.  

A cloth, Acdo, a mop some bleach  
my **** high nose down as I scrub,  
recalling grandma's quick brief screach  
quickly cured by her back-hand rub.  
The bleach does it to me, I blub,  
at memories that sting enticed,  
as I rinse out my cloth in the tub,  
cloth, mop and pail for me, suffice.  

Not for me the machine's hub-hub  
If offered I say " ain't my vice "  
I'll keep my Aladdin's lamp to rub  
cloth, mop and pail for me, suffice.

The line between madness,
The line between normality,
The price to pay for loneliness;
I ought to pay with sincerity.

In a world of madness,
The normal are insane,
The right are arcane,
And the abused are ridiculed by sadness.
I ought these days to go aflame,
For now, my madness, needs no blame.

A black swan moves through silent streams,
With wings of night, it haunts the dreams.
It wears its sorrow, cloaked in dark,
A soul that drifts, lost in the arc.

But there, beside it, pure and bright,
A white swan dances in the light.
Its feathers shine, its heart is free,
A symbol of what good can be.

Two swans that glide, yet worlds apart,
One carries shadows, one a heart.
In every soul, both dark and pure,
The swans of fate forever endure.