the ill-tempered autumn wind does little to sway an evergreen

whose timber column rings thus of doggedness unseen.

there may have been moments when leaves would wither here and there,

but its blanket of foliage has fought to keep its verdant hue--

whether caught in snow or shaken by pelting rain,

whether trampled undue by the trudging of time

or battered somehow by a certain bane...

the fact is, he's been here for so long:

he's taken after the colors of her writing pens

like mixed laundry bleeding its red unto a wash of white linens--

alas, sometimes I find myself lying beneath the boardwalk

drowning in her songs and sifting through a gallery of her smiles.

this has been the most meaningful three quarters of any year

i have had the privilege of co-authoring with someone so dear.

I've been afflicted with this you-centric pareidolia.
To be convicted of drawing your face
on every passing passerby
implies the weight of a final farewell coda
goes beyond the gloom hovering over a looming goodbye.

And it's an ill that goes beyond daytime hallucinations...
Every time I read a book I wonder
whether the same ideas from the words down and up under
have had their ships drop hook on the shores of your imagination.

While my mind succumbs itself to your endless regime
I implore you to tarry aboard my train of thought:
depart not soon—heck, pester me amidst daydream
even though I know a waking man ought
not spoil himself that way.

she's a park bench witness
to my marked French kisses
and her pulchritude pulls me to say
not even Clark Kent's mistress
can push me out of her flames

"The clock lies!" is the diatribe of a fiery romance.

He stockpiles a little side of diary parlance

in the form of littered poems.

To think the road has stretched itself so far

despite home so closely etched and still familiar

seems but a big lie.

Alas, I've never rambled so far from day one

as I have with her, stapled to hours that weighed like none

other before them.

I'm happy to say that so far as we've walked

the street lamps still shine despite the scaled distance

and sunsets spill to night in nonpareil vibrance

just as they had when we first held hands.

small moments weigh heavy as the heartfelt exchanges of the romantic;

the doses of molly he takes repel the bandages from a rose's *****

and vindicate almost every awkward handshake ever pushed as an antic.

although sometimes I wonder whether or not I am merely a chauffeur

or the very passenger sitting beside her--equally clueless where we might end up...

but then again, there are no forbidden silences with her.

the cab ride pesters us with pretty zoetrope views on its window side

and the fare has never been this forgiving for such a distant Shangri-La.