One thousand years of trees will be standing
And my love for you
It will always go timber
In December,
your limbs kept me warm after dark
I remember,
A light shined so bright
We sparked.
My bearded man,
We flew, at best,
and into history went the rest
Unless, Even if,
One million years of trees stood standing limber
My love for you,
it would always go timber.

One a day,
Keeps the blues at bay.
Write on a stormy day.
Brainstorm if you will.
Start where you left off.
Come back to it.
Use it for a rainy day,
Let that be today.
Sleep on it.
Don't force it,
Put a stamp on it,
Don't post it, just write.
Let it be. Unfinished.
Untitled.
Undecided.
Erase, blow, sweep. Repeat.
Revise it.
Make a prize of it.
Let out a whimper and be loud.
Know where you're going.
Say it in ink.
Let your fingers guide you.
And be ready ,
For tomorrow .

If only the vivid images would translate so well
to paper as they do in my dreams,
then maybe one day,
I could paint it for you.
Maybe someday we could both relate better.
If only your scriptured words could lure me into submission,
as they do in your dreams,
then possibly you could sing a song from it.
And hopefully we can dance a little more.
Like before.

Death is being in solitude forever.
Just you.
All this space has claimed you, there are no walls to tear down.
You will never hear another voice cry.
Or bring yourself to sing.
Because the lonliness has robbed you of a perfect pitch.
And even if you could.
There is no right word to say.
You will never leave your mark on anyone again.
The only touch you will remember is your own.
You will never smile again.
And yes, this life will age you.
What life?
Wishing you to be under 6 feet,
Waiting to be reborn.
So you can relish in beauty once again.

I look good in this mirror, look closer
It's only because nothing is lit up.
Background black.
Forbidding those to see beneath my scaley skin.
My eyes were meant to be gazed upon,
If for too long, like Madusa said,
Man turns to stone,
But off with her head.
My voice has remnants of sweet birds in the morning,
Or like soundscapes before bed.
Just look beneath me, you'll see
Things are empty.
Nothing but a sad sad piano playing,
Tip toeing in your ear.
Be weary of me.
Stand clear.
Beware of me.

Just focus on the word.
It's been said to you.
So you've already used the sense of hearing.
Maybe it's been read to you.
When you see it, love connects to the brain,
using an abundance of senses now.
You visualize love.
I'm talking to you there.
Don't forget to write Love down.
Study its form.
Express it, put it into action.
You'll remember it better that way.