He strolled through shaded lanes
decorating his walls of time,
a gentle remembrance revisiting
the memories loss of hue
while floor collects dust
under tapping soles of feet.

Each day is one of unpredictability,
a meaningless forecast of the weather's
facade, too volatile to contemplate
in the midst of the browning leaves.

The hillsides, covered in a verdant green,
ripple above the river's trickling surface,
rising to the right and sinking to the left,
a cardiograph caressing a decaying heart.

It is most difficult to withstand the droughts
of summer, hastily transitioning to the blizzards
of winter before falling as the drops of Springtime
rain; even autumn at times can bring a bitter chill.

Yet the key is to take each day one at a time,
a solemn refusal to glance at climatic uncertainty,
but instead a gentle acceptance of life's sporadicity
and the fluctuating differences each morning presents.

Now again I can sleep once more
as I cling to the peace I've found at last --
no longer do my eyes struggle to close,
awaiting the dissipation of his breath
as he slowly ventures into sleep's abyss.

A nightly routine of restless evenings
awaiting the daybreak of morning sun,
a familiar comfort of light's senseful grace
caressing my wilted palms, pruned from tension,
drying underneath the ultraviolet cast from above.

At last I've discovered insomnia's antidote,
the mournful release of his quivering hand
ejecting me into a void of newfound rest;
trust is the apparatus of sleep's emergence,
and I've trusted none as I now do myself.

it finds itself
so exhausted
it struggles
to differentiate
between
its dreams,
its nightmares,
and the reality
Sun brings along
as she awakens
each morning.

Sometimes I wonder
if I'm even living at all --
is this view of the river
caressing its bending banks
just a consequence of perception,
or is there an underlying meaning
highlighting life's realism,
tangible proof confirming
our collective fear,
that we are nothing
but a miniscule deviation
in the fabric of this life.

Views of a highway
tarped in a blanket
of rolling vehicles
fade into a portrait
of a sharp river's curve,
a creeping tide
marching alongside
the green density,
tiny bungalows stacked high,
hidden deep in the foliage
licking the water's edge.

Twenty-three years
of blood coursing through
has led me to this moment;
two full seasons of inner turmoil
compounded with the ferocities
of self-preservation, of self-healing,
surmounting to an inescapable reward,
one of recognition for the atrocities
woven through embroidered experiences.

This collection is a mirror
reflecting the very words
that attempted to restrict
themselves in the depths
of my haunted mind;
a journey of trial and error,
a rediscovery of the mechanics
of my persona, of the ways
I find myself surpassing
each obstacle standing in my way.

Stringing words together
to create a tangible obituary
mourning the losses never believed
I could transcend; I release
the demons dictating my life
as a puppet, accept the past
for what it will always be,
welcome myself with ease,
treat myself with kindness,
allow myself to heal, to live,
to thrive, to grieve those
undeserving of remembrance,
a valor of undisputed disloyalty,
one of generational trauma
bestowed upon those
kind enough to try.

This is my transition
to a new era welcoming
me with outstretched arms.

Even when rays of sunlight
bask down on the currents
rippling through verdant ravines,
a lofty heaviness persists
despite the sanguine summer haze.
Strolls in the sunrise
and midnight ponderings
are no match for the humidity
of the day; clothes cling to skin,
dampening not from heat,
but from the moisture
that falls as mist
in the dead of night.

You are the humidity
of summertime existence;
invisible to the eye, yet
ever-so-present, a constant
reminder of the obscurities
concealed from perception.