I stroll among the tiny torches
The little flares of yellow light
With the red lights gleaming overhead

Would you climb over me into this good night?

Into the stars amidst the starlight
My feet attached to these sturdy knees
Atop the earth

And I, regretting not that I am alive
But that I cannot reach beyond the sky
With these warming fingers

For though I am a similar light
Within this world
My life is as short and sweet
As the dew which seeps through this good night

How I feel no fear initially
No need to run nor attempt to hide
From the dimly lit trees beneath the moon

For the torches in the summertime
Have always guided this heart of mine
Into the arms of the beloved

The one who is without fault
And who is all of the dawn

For he is everything devoid of fear
He is the opposite
Like the true perception behind time

No words will ever say or stay
The chilling storm
The quiet calm
Or the persistent want which cannot be reached

No
Words can only bridge those gaps
Which wish to be bridged  

Because storms give way to rampant floods
Which wash away the builders hopes
When poorly built

In such instances as these
Words are not always the best way
To build and begin again

No metaphor will tell it
Although I convince myself within the moment
That it will last

That the clouds above my head
The howling wind which I adore
The summer rain and the glorious morn
Will indeed last

But they never do

Because no metaphor can contain
Or stretch it over the canvas to fit
Or even begin to properly paint
This representation known as you

You simply are, as simply is
Beyond the metaphor
Within the shadow of a moonlit truth

When I look into the mirror, I am more than what I see.
I see the past, I see the present, I see the future...I see me.
I see the ideas and the ideals, the fleeting notions in-between.
I see it all within the mirror, although the mirror, isn't the only thing I see.
I see myself and my old image, I'm nothing special you can see.
I look within to see my reason, and portray a look to pretend I've seen.
But...this isn't a mirror set before me, it's just a doorway next to me.
Two sets of glass, a single person, a dual-reflection for all to see.

I want to want her like a glass of wine
With an endless taste, and a deep draft
Waiting for me at the end of each day

Bitter and sweet like the summer tea  
With a hint of dandelions, and her hair brushed gently away   

Although this is me...you need not see, or want her in a similar way
But it's best if you could acquire the taste.

Because when you hold an endless glass
You can sit and sip your life away
Without care or concern for those moments past

Slowly like a semisweet
A Merlot or Chardonnay

How I want to want her like a glass of win
So that I can drink her in
And be drunk on her at the end of each day

Lift not a man’s chin
By the force of your hand
When his head is down

Instead, consider this
If you are worthy of his sight
And an admiration to his eyes
He will look up at you
In due time

For it is not your place to try
And keep him from such things within
As feeling are

But encourage him instead to be
By standing out most patiently
So that you may appeal to him
And to his eyes

To seek the hopefulness within
And the truth as well, in which you share
And stand beside

No, if you seek to raise a man’s chin
You must stand with him and seek his eyes

There is no darker side of the room
There is no air left in to breathe
There is no light, there is no sound
When left alone with such feeling as these

Because

When one person feels
But the other doesn't
There is only darkness
Back to back

And the silence therein in between

She is a portrait in my mind
A canvas of flesh and blood
With an ink stain upon her chest
Where her heart still beats steadily
He life turning like the ocean
Her eyes as stead as the water underneath
She is a portrait and yet a friend of me
And by the sea she will always be

Paper
Yearns for the trees
No more than I
A humble man
Yearn for the pride of my prior youth
For once you have begun
You can always begin again
In some respects

Isn’t that write?

How deep is a puddle?
Underneath the sky
Atop the earth
And soaking into the dirt beside the rugged asphalt

Created beside the hand of man
How it reaches in
Just to stir itself into a frenzy

How it seeks to meddle and mend the crooked stream
From its own perspective  
When the preference is not to wind but to align

For this I say
Unto the man
Who holds the line
With his elbows locked and intertwined

That a winding way is not a way
Or a challenge from the immortal hand
It's just a steam of the natural
It's just the earth trying to begin again

Pulling the water back to the sea
To grind the eternal rock to sand

Ever so slowly

And this is why
Directly beside your creation
The puddles began