The other day
I felt it suddenly
The well of rhymes within my chest
Depleting fast

Like the tides abound
My mind running out
And my words stretched out across the floor

At rest again
In bed again
A mind to start and test again
To beat the passion into a winded horse
I am running like a fumid man

Without a muse
What is a heart?
But a fickle clock to wind and twist

And the temperamental time which takes
Forever still to announce amiss

How powerless am I to keep
The well within a brimming full
For without a willingness within my chest
What is the wind in which I test?

Myself a kite
A puddle out
A museless man in I must invest

I hate being human.
I hate the waiver.
Because the things that I do habitually, aren't even me.
I just learn them.
Slowly.
Steadily.
The learned yet subconscious, Me.

Hold my hands, look into me and see the truth.

Meet me in the deepest part of the glowing forest.

If your heart is there, next of Gondolin, the same as mine.

How beautiful the stars to shine atop our heads.

Like the crowns of old. As the glowing trees ignite your eyes.

As mine have glistened at this very thought.

Perhaps to meet you there at all,

Would make my heart glow as a Silmaril.

For not even I know when this glow was crafted.

Formed out of the unknown and the song.

I wait for you.

Though to Varda your eyes,

And Yavanna your heart may forever belong.

First, our bones and then our homes, with fences soon to follow.
Every stone built wall to turn back to the earth.
Like a grave left open every winter, burying itself within the snow.
No child is left to grow into youth when the world turns back into its own.
A collapse isn't always an inward thing.
Just as the inhabitants aren't always meant to inherent what their parents owned.
No life or existence is completely secure.

I’ll be on the mountain top* with the stars around my ears. My God to lift my life filled bones, higher than every tree and stone atop the slowly turning earth.  The embodiment of bird and sky, with word filled wings to bend the wind and to cut the currents of this life.  Like the westerlies, the blueish skies and the seas my father painted in my eyes.  

And you will be in the valley below* with the same... foolish... guy.

Pity this,

But not you Miss Fish.

Pity me for the try.

I’m torn between sharing the mass
Of stones I’ve dropped to the bottom of the well
And keeping the precious water supply all to myself

Because it’s not against my beliefs to drink
Or to share with someone a drink as well

But to pollute my own most trusted source of outpouring
Will take a confidence in me
The kind which ought but doesn’t always swell

If you were here
I’d take the day
And you on a tour
I’d carve your name into the snow
Instead of hers
We’d rewrite history and revisit these
The songs which have yet to be sung
Together anew

Drop a smooth stone in a pond
And no one sees the ripple
Skip a stone on a running river
And the ripple is consumed

The coldness felt
Is the willingness of God
To let it be as we perceive it to be
From our fatalist stance
Be it true or false
It simply is as he allows it to be
Two cords which we cannot coexist
Connectively

Forget them all and forget the calling
The rhyme, the reason, the motivation
Forget the original thought entirely
The process which has since passed you by
Forget it all
Just breathe on the ink and let it dry
Forget like the clouds overhead
And be free to fly between the pages
Unbound as the open sky
Since opening and letting go, and being all that you have been
Is not a sin
Forget the details of the journey
So that you may simply walk again
And discover the mindfulness within
Forget and let it begin again