"A girl and boy went for a walk. The walk turned into a race. The girl won, but it's okay—the boy took second place."

It is simple, uncomplicated yet straightforward
It is but love and nothing but love
It is but a “Good morning beautiful”
To days end “Goodnight my love”
But two cups of coffee rather than one
The quite attentive smile when listening
The hug and a kiss upon arrival
The respect of consideration when deciding
Understanding of one’s feeling upon action
It is not complicated
To love and live with one in mind
To live as two, not as one
Truly love and respect till death parts
Yet even in death love does not cease
For a true love is eternal
To love you truly
Until the very end
In this life and the next
For all eternity

How to gain the confidence to complete a simple task?

a twisty verbiage, but stop!
it is not cutesy or frivolous,
but an awed respect,
for that fact;
the complexity of the monumental
is the sum of:
the bricks, the letters,
the words, the lines, the stanza and
of course, the spaces in between
that makes simple so ****
complex

feeling good
i count the ways,
the little things
that bless my days,
a beautiful sunrise
lights the sky,
each one is special
i don't ask why,
i stand in awe
a vision treat,
such little blessings
can't be beat.

So there's this girl
A small girl with tired eyes
She says she loves me
And I wish that I could believe her
That she was anything more than just
Water flowing through my hands
And when the bucket is empty
I'll still see her, and it won't be the same

So there's this woman
A stressed woman with worried eyes
She sees nothing more than the night before
She asks "Are you okay?"
And I tell her, "No, I'm not."
And we leave it at that.
And the next day
We do the same thing.

So there's this gun
A gifted gun with one beckoning eye
It is darker than anything I've ever stared at.
And when I look into it, I get scared.
Because I want to be whole again,
To feel the sun on my skin
To feel that hair in my face
To feel those lips on mine.
But the sun is killing me.
Because I can't be your sun.

So there's this note.
You don't have to read it
It doesn't have much merit.
I just thought about you
So I found my gift.
My wonderful god given gift.
To leave everyone I care about.
Because the sun gives you cancer.

The sun shines
But though it
Hides from time to time
The sun is still shining
But like the stars and moon
It is hidden by the day light
At the height of its beauty
There dies the cherry blosson
To make way to the cherry
Am I making sense with this
As the leaves turn colour and
Fall
The beauty gives way to
The death of winter
Winter when everything dies
And renews its self
This I say that the nature
Is know different from man
One dies and another is born
And so on and so on
This is just the cycle of it all
Now Let's have a ball
In the fall are the stars
Come out of hiding to
Greer the sleeping and the dead
Lets break bread  and be on
Our merry way
This is the cycle of life
And death
The promise that is annoying
But the greatest promise of all
The continued cycle of it all.

Profundity is found
in the simple, everyday
occurrences that our
human brains apply
immense meaning to.

⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆
Dearest Count,
I know you watch and listen.
It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts
To you, to whom, I christen.

These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane,
but seldom in vain.
In antediluvian silence drawn,
manifests in hyperborean dearth
a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth.

Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate,
the omphalos of matter, still inchoate,
where perichoresis in vertiginous tide
the fractal that doth  assuredly bide.

A palimpsest of null embrace
where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns,
and time itself forgets to turn.

Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin,
in circumflected aeons spin,
converging on the cusp of naught,
where paradigms in silence rot.
A chrysalis of paradox,
enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks,
that chime in fugue, then dissipate
beyond the hinge of latent fate...

The pericombobulatory grand design
deliquesces in auctorial decline!

(Syncretic palingenesis unspools,
within the aether’s epistemic pools,
a syzygetic parallax unweaves
the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.)

For naught but vacuous profundities remain,
a simulacrum of the arcane mundane,
where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies
a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise.

Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design,
circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign,
as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce
in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse.

Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse,
catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse,
whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite,
obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night.

A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast,
consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage
of our shared Jungian past,
germinates within the syntagmatic—
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
Coalesced to pragmatic,
Lugubriously emphatic.

Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire,
where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire,
one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam,
an ontosemantic palinode to the dream.

The Archetype realized.
The Alchemist mystically re-materialized.

Count, oh Count.
"Wherefore art thou," indeed,
in this : our time of greatest need.