Born with nothing in my hand,
I stumbled upon this place,
Now I hold what silence sends—
A loaded gun, a pen that bends.

Love songs echo, cold and done,
No battles left that I have won.
The ground beneath me slips and slides,
I dream of stars where silence hides.

Why must each tale end with me?
Why not begin where I could be?
This mask still clings—it will not fall,
But I can't ****.
I hear the call.

I hear it speak in quiet halls,
A voice that echoes off the walls.
It tells me, write, or lose it all—
The pain, the love, the rise, the fall.

These pages show the things I hide,
The tears I've wiped, the times I've lied.
The gun is cold, it stays with me,
A shadow of who I could be.

They say the stars are born in fire—
But I was shaped by lost desire.
Not joy, not hate, not something grand—
Just silence I don’t understand.

So still I write, though none may read,
With heavy hands and quiet need.
This mask I wear, this war I fight—
This is my truth.
This is my night.

intrguing, this global web site,
when you post at your "odd" hours,
somewhere it is early morn, or the
dreading deading of night,
late afternoon, lunchtime, and the,
this poem slow falls to the bottom of
the front page, into a Found, but Lost,
maybe, some die almost, totally untouched,
some shockingly reveberate, some holy revered,
others, break & brate, forlornly, of unlimited loneliness

this mystery I have studied, and freely admit,
after 15 years, under-the-ladder-stand, and
wisdom goes from zero to less and lesser;
it is time for spring cleaning, amidst the chaos,
in/of a turmoiled world, soiled, cleansing the
palate this year, is harder than ever, and the more
I ponder our exploding litany, I swallow acceptance
whole, pre~forgive most sins, and submit to the burden
and know this:
of time and poetry, the poetry of time,
now, more than ever, is the time for poetry

and the time is:
5:44AM
Tue 22 2025
nyc, usa
and the poem is now!