My eyes sink
Dreaming of you
If I blink
I may miss you more

It’s your soul
I hold so close
And your love
Raise a toast

My eyes are like sunset
Sinking while I sleep
Yours are like sunrise
Full of energy

My light dims
While yours awakens
My might sins
Your sins were taken

We’re so up-and-down
I’m full of frowns
Your smile lightens
Mine turns around

You brighten my evenings
You heal my grieving
I have a lot of skeletons
They hold meanings

I’ll never be like you
You’re perfect by define
I’ll live in solitude
You’ll never live as mine

The way I’d design it
You’ll make my coffee daily
But I’ll resign it
And give up on the maybe

Your face will exit my brain
Two weeks notice, I’ll never be the same
I’ll hold my head and pray
That my world won’t turn as grey

As it was without you.

When she's serious, she's cool and bright,
Like moonlight sharp in the quiet night.
Each word she speaks is calm and wise,
A thoughtful spark behind her eyes.
But when she smiles, a child appears,
She speaks with joy that lifts my gloom,
And fills my heart with quiet bloom.

Hopeless Romanticism - is what ails me
this ever longing for a connection with another soul.
The festering desire to be loved, understood
I fear as a society we are lost
never able to tolerate the company of others —
too busy curating ones own life in a realm that is not tangible
in the act of curation we eliminate any chance
in experiencing vulnerability with another
the painting of a perfect relationship
lacks the connection we desire so much.
We remain at surface level with one another
no longer interested in digging deeper.

If only I could hate you, just a bit -
the lonely nights would hurt less;
It's always late when memories hit,
no trace of light in the darkness.
.
There won't be another love like this,
rare as diamonds in the ground;
I wish to join the abyss,
hide where I'll never be found.
.
Our broken edges used to fit
together like a hand and glove,
and I doubt I'll ever find it,
another gift from above.
.
No one else before or after,
has come close to what you were;
Silver bells of your laughter,
Pierce my heart still, like a burr.
.
You're gone, you've moved on,
living life as if we never were;
I'm on my own, a wounded fawn,
days merging in a blur.
.
I want to hate you, I swear,
you haunt me against my will,
yet foolishly, I still care;
a dark void nothing can fill.
.
I fall and fall, ever deeper,
crawl to try and escape,
you are my own Reaper,
eternal shadow in your shape.

Despite the hardships we endure,
And of the misfortune visited upon us,
There is much opportunity for joy
If we are brave enough to discover it
And venture to uncover it.
Friendship like romanticism
Giving us momentum,
And belief like passion
Giving us objective.
But will you make the journey
Or settle where you have started?
Will you call home wherever you landed?

An old man climbs into a vintage car
to smell the sweet upholstery,
caresses the steering wheel’s steel bars
and grips the gearshift **** of ivory.

He pulls the heavy door to close
it and hear its deep, dull iron clunk
that fuel-injects him with a dose
of chrome-clad metal hunks.

The streamlined car doesn’t move.
Still, it takes him on a favored trip
down a grey road well grooved
that his whitewall mind-tires firmly grip.

Its tires spin in grooves and sing
a well-pitched tune of rolling on.
Seams of concrete slabs now bring
the bumping heartbeat of this song.

His greying hairs match the road
which stretches out into his past,
leading him back in freeway flow
to a love that he’d made last.

For in a leather rumble seat
in a sleek car just like this one,
he’d kissed her hand and lips to greet
his sweetheart hunnybun.

She smiled as bright as high beams
at her motorheaded beau,
with wide eyes that stole his dreams
and made his fuel more quickly flow.

With hair like raven asphalt
framing lips in brake-light red,
in her saw he no faults,
but thanks to him, she’d end up dead

in a shattering crash
as they slid into a tree,
his youthful driving brash
and far too wild and free.

He swore to never leave
her by that bleak perditious street.
Resolved, he chose to grieve
her and keep the rumble seat.

So once a year he sits in this car.
He never drove again.
But each time it takes him far,
right to where his hunnybun had been.

The king of what was stands in silence
and surveys his sunsetted realm.
His spine is straight in stiff defiance
of the twilight of the kingdom he’d helmed.

On a plastered pedestal high he stands
surrounded by the waste of his times.
Carved into it, once acclaimed in his lands,
was his name, now covered by vines.

The pale sheen of low sun as winter nears
casts shadows across his etched face.
Its grooves grow deeper year after year —
he’s the gnomon whose shade this sundial has traced.

He takes no note of the thorny brambles
that have entangled his fixed stony feet.
With flinty gaze and wrapped in a mantle
of granite, he keeps watch through storms and sleet.

Now stripped of his titles and even his name,
the proud king of the ruin’s still there.
For while the long night has broken his fame,
still he stands, marked by his unbroken stare.

Spoken first, particular last
With a mightier introduction, ahead
Since sincerity, since seclusion, so fast...
Has the voice of a beautiful angel, awoken to lead...

Meetings of the mind
Continue in the voice, meager times
Hope and surmisal, can be so kind...
Letting a lost promise, become strength's trying...

Survival's prophecy, of the fittest
Where in, stirs of shared conscience
Is the can't, the cope of truth, a senses test...
Adage over communed liberty, overtly presence...

A tale of two liberty's
Shown a calling, a creed to instinct, due
Know a keep, beyond which is civility...
Ready an eye, of comprehension is anarchy's you...

Salt to salt, spice to spice
Where, out to dance among intuition's stars
Has the new voice, of now in love twice...
The rue of simplicity, the risk of summation, by far...