Magnificent
To be infinite
In the complexity
Of all that surrounds us

Desolating
I'm just existing
In the complexity
Of questioning everything

How did I end up back here
Blind to what lies ahead
Yet in the fading road behind
I see each bridge and bend

Like the tide I have returned
With your mem'ry on my mind
Yet like the tide, my lessons learned
Wash away before my eyes

I lost so much with you, my dear
To walk along your way
The path we planned together
Would have led us both astray.  
So,
I washed the silt, the sand, the dirt
In brackish water tears
As hand in hand, God led me on
Back to familiar piers.

The dust I stirred up as I left
All settled with each stride
So here again, I journey on
With you not by my side.
|b.g.|

In still frames and photographs,
I still see your eyes light up,
they're not faded like today.

I see you vibrant and laughing,
a sweet grin as you say my name,
"Stop sweetie, I don't look good."  You mumbled,
and I begged to differ,
felt my hands shiver,
You always looked good...

With your long hair in a bun,
that white sweater of mine-
was way too big,
the way it always wrapped you in the
scent of my cologne,
the safeness of home,
and the way you giggled
as I pretended you were a delicious truffle,
playfully as if I were a pig,
and lovingly nibbled your ear.

Back when "you" were still here.

And then you began to drift,
across an impasse,
a weight too heavy for me to lift.
and you spun your golden feathers,
across time and space,
drug induced and broken,
a shattered masterpiece,  
your life: a waste.

The tricks of the self:
to confuse and divide, ensnare and impair,
to turn the head on the tail.
Leaving us all chasing circles,
lashing out at phantoms and grasping for dreams.
Living our life's through fiction.
Against the real, it seems we rail.

My mistake was to believe:
To believe in human kindness or reason,
or that truth is in some way potent.
The idea that humanity could make sense,
of what the past will portent.
To dream that borders would not be
barriers to better ways.

A dim light flickers
Pool cues line the walls
Screams and shouts make echo
A young man pots the eight-ball.

One pianist guides the night
The house it gradually takes
The hopeless builder's money
He worked so hard to make.

I stare into the emptiness
Of my glass that was Jim Beam
And nod towards the 'tender
He shakes
"One more will make thirteen."

I stare into his eyes
I can see where he has been.

The lines upon his forehead
Cry mis'ries of the war
His lips ne'er felt the word father
Who died when he was four.

I see a widower stand before me
In the bristles of his chin
How deep my heart sinks
When I come round to think
Of how he drowns his sorrows in gin.

His hands show scars and bruises
Of work 'fore that of liquor
This man he radiates wisdom
The light keeps on its flicker.

I part my lips to ask him
Of great things he's done and seen
But his glassy eyes, sight absently
"Son, these things have gone and been."