Through turmoil and tragedy
I am at peace
I float in a cleansing sea of crystal
Fed by the River
Which flows from the Bema Seat
I am washed
Red
The color of life
The color of death to myself
And life
I am at peace

The morning I found the box
of photo albums in the attic
I learned that
the sun would have risen
even if I hadn't

Daylight is not necessarily
a good metaphor
for life

There you were
ten years earlier
having a picnic on the kitchen floor
despite the rain storm
visible through the foggy window behind you

You can make sandwiches
in any type of weather
but seeing the photos
loaned me understanding of why
you don't eat rye bread anymore

When I went back down stairs
I took our bread box outside to the birds
and made you soup
in silence.

When you let yourself slip away
succumbing to the gentle pushes.

A pool too deep to swim in
and it's not yours.

There is such a thing as too much hope
and we all know about high expectations.


So, forgive me for wanting to stand back up.

Forgive me for wanting to get out of this pool.

Forgive me for wanting to give up.


If I can't help myself, how can I help anyone else?


*There is such a thing as having too much hope.

A
        ghost, ghoul and demon
live where my
        trust,love and happiness
used to be, their names are
        past,present and future.

Lost the passion for the art. That poetic justice I use to bring forward from the heart. Is that what made me real? If so I'm just as fake as Roman Cathology. Am i that book you tired of reading? laying on a shelf fighting dust bunnies. If so tell me where the passion go. Tell me where's the love I lost. I remember how you stroke my pages. How you opened me in half and just past your fingers through my body Oo. how much you read. For hours we were there on your bed. Just us, or you forgot. You had  no one left. Don't you miss my sensitive skin and Out lining of gold. Your favorite King James edition. I... I mean did you really trade religion for idealism. Didn't I help you preach unity. Tell me who have you left behind even Luis Farrakon was mentioned in your lines. Perfectly a lined to make the the next one better, and the old ones new like a retro pair nines. Tell me where's this woman we call justice or she a man. She beats us then she feeds us. Lost in my thoughts. Hard to understand the turmoil when you have won and you lost.

she loved the rain
the splitter splatter sound
every drop makes
were music to her ears

she loved the thunder
the ferocity of its roar
gave her the strength
to hold on for awhile more

she loved the lightning
the beauty of each stroke
containing the lethal power to hurt and ****
yet remain in inexplicable beauty

in short she loved thunderstorms
a mixture of rain thunder and lightning
just like her inner conflict of thoughts
and emotional turmoil

she compared herself to thunderstorms
not that she was a beauty
but she believed that
it depicted the words she wanted to say

she loved them so much
she chose to die on the day
there was a thunderstorm outside
pouring out things she never said.

Autumn leaves a-fluttering free,
To shroud the land around us; a
Day enshrined in history,
To hold us strong and bind us; a

Nation grieves tranquility
That used to help define us; a
World looks on so helplessly,
But hope and faith remind us, a

Roiling mass of turgid sea
May try so hard to break us; a
Foreign hand may raise in glee,
But it will never shake us; a

Place of magic sanctity
Against the foes that tried us; a
Land for heroes, brave and free,
Is where you'll always find us.

Amen.

Silent Mountain erupts
years of inner turmoil spewing fire
creating widespread havoc