looks can be decieving,
and logic can be revealing.

there's a
monster that they make of me,
but they're in the dim light
in casks of shadows.

read my poems upon death
and that's where I'll be.
searching for light
through
sanctifiying flames.
and just when I'm going,
I'll be guided by my mother's
merciful grace.

the wound the wound,
yes, the wound.
it is still there
for it has not
yet healed to
a scar.

In May, may we ?
Don't say nothing- no,
don't say no.
Do you know you are the one that I
would write for ? So there
in May, may I ? So I may have every of my page have your name ?
For I feel this consent,
yes- I do. so please, don't say no-
for then I may not,
even when I can;
and maybe even
when we should.

if you feel not in control-

you are the paintbrush and
the world is the canvas in
which you paint.
with words, with actions
with thoughts, with everything.
if I am the paintbrush,
then who or what is the artist
painting ?
is it me ?
is it you ?
is it us ?
could it be everyone ?
do I allow you to use me ?
to write what it is
the audience so pleases ?
and are we all paintbrushes ?
and, if so, is each to a collection
of which is the art ?

where is the source of your ink ?
for a pen is like a brush.
and what pictures are drawn from it ?

and how do you love ?
is it so openly a suggestion
you breath it out like air ?
you breath it in like perfume ?

well, the woods are starting to burn again,
and I can not deny that it smells fantastic.