In payment for those moments
I gazed at the world through
Windows of midnight hue,
I am lost in wrecks of the mind,
With the tacit knowledge that
There is no fear without me.
It is within:
A flash of radiant light
Engulfed in black eclipse.

Late have I longed for it;
A flash, a wink, a whisper,
A thunderous roar, I seek,
To wrench my gaze of worldly things
And lay waste, at last,
These windows of midnight hue.

Late have I longed for it…
A flash…
A wink…
A whisper…

Perhaps the mountain sings
in centuries, a slow vibration,
a secret rhythm, the grain of its face
etched with the scars of knowing
a melody caught in the depths of time.

Perhaps the river knows
the path it carves, it chisels the stone,
its fingers shape clay, the way it carries
the sky in its restless hands
as an endless refrain toward the sea.

Perhaps the old tree feels
the breath of wind, a warm morning dew,
its earthen embrace, the weight of autumn
pressing on its weathered leaves
in quiet witness to the season’s tune.

And what of us,
woven from dust that once knew the stars–
who feel, who think, who sing–
our lives shimmering like heat above the road,
do we carry the old tree’s tune?
The river’s refrain?
The mountain’s melody?

Listen.
The silence is singing.

A hush descends before the heavens weep,
a gentle murmur stirs the leaves to set the stage.
The wind whispers, a breath in slumber deep,
like the delicate rustle of a turning page.

It rises slowly, from whisper to roar,
gales surge with desperate fervor, a wild refrain,
like a restless sea thrown upon the shore,
a swelling harmony of wind and leaf and rain.

Teardrops slip and curve where bending boughs lean,
gliding down a trembling blade in quiet sigh,
a fleeting dance upon the emerald green,
before the waiting puddle claims the weeping sky.

Furies surge and heave with passion
Where swells music of love’s lost lore,
As deep a longing in ocean’s roar,
Only to break, and retreat into silence.
No matter the force, an unreachable moor,
A lonely cadence played upon the shore.

Fates, like gales that pull our sails
Through calm or strife, pale or grand,
Leave us longing for the strand.
Bitter pangs of waking woes
Storm loud as immortal command,
All these lines drawn upon the sand.

Furies, lashed out from the sea,
Lie broken down on ocean’s floor,
Softened, smoothed, by ocean’s score.
For if, unscathed, we return from depths,
By what star shall we guide the oar,
That we might sail free, evermore?

Fates give not a brief repose, but
Sails unfurl, and worlds expand,
That we might explore the hinterland.
With no lines upon the sea, our fates are free –
Love removes its scouring brand,
As tide moves high upon the land.

The world is quiet now; the fading light
lies soft upon the hills, a gentle glow.
The sea extends beneath the coming night,
each wave a pulse of time in ceaseless flow.

Come stand with me, and hear the waters speak—
No voice of comfort, but a hollow song
of yearning deep, cruel, and forever bleak,
where hope and reason drown in tides too strong.

The clash is clear—our hearts, aflame with dreams,
cry out for meaning on the endless main,
yet nature answers not, and all that seems
secure is lost, like fire in the rain.

But let us not falter at the cold shore,
nor flee to gods or myths to dull the ache,
for though no meaning waits beyond the score,
this life we hold is ours alone to make.

And still the waves press on without regret,
indifferent to the cries that fill the air.
So we must stand unshaken, though beset
by stillness vast and burdens hard to bear.

Though life is fleeting, dark, and void of plan,
there’s beauty still—in love, in thought, in man.

I have tried to leave my mark–
Pressed my name into the trees,
only for the bark to scar
and swallow my touch.
Spoken into open air,
only for the words to fade
and sink into wind.
Let ink bleed into paper,
only for the page to thin
and crumble to dust.

The world is good at forgetting–
The rivers scatter my reflection,
the mountains shed my step in landslides,
even stars do not pause to mark my loss.
It has watched as I have swirled away
until nothing remained of my shape,
as if to whisper:
you were never really here.

Time is a slow and gentle thief–
Not cruel, not kind,
only certain.

And yet–
Somewhere, the laughter I gave
finds its way back in memory.
Somewhere, the kindness I gave
lives in the hands of another.
And somewhere, the love I gave
spreads unseen beneath the surface–
Like a stone slipping through water,
its ripples never truly gone.