She was never blind
neither unkind
she soothed their screams
and ran with their dreams
she wrote of hurt
only in the arteries
of her heart
feel the silence
like red roses speak of love
her eyes bleed in braille.

The sun will melt you
Only the soul carries weight
Nothing else matters.

Found this here this morning
carelessly flung
on the living room floor
fallen I fear
from one of our pocket’s
a random lie
left over
but ill begotten

Dreamcatcher
hold my hand
draw me close
lift her veil
offer my love
beyond the shallow
on the grail.

Is darkness
a blessing or a curse?

It moulds me to become
the better person I am today.

Each morning,
this habit, have I,
I use the least sense,
mere possibility, plain whatifery,
to make my ignorance expand, to fill
the emptiness in the unknown knowns.

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told.
    Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
    And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.