As nightmares subside
at dawn, your eyes
reflect the fear and the
pain.
They spill a desire to try.

Please try.

You can walk in the
rain without an umbrella
and let the clover and
honeysuckle guide you
to safety.
Evict the chaos from
your thoughts, and
leave the incubus behind.

Bowing to the ***** god,
I lived like a pleasure
seeking missile, propelled
toward all things ME.
Empty as a carcass.
Hungry as a desert.
I didn't see the
strawberry moon of
summer.
It was me and the
Ferryman, until the
river ran dry.
Eternal winter for
the soul.

And then

A revolution in my
being.
A total shift in
my values and
perception.
The Creator purchased
my dilapidated heart.
He moved in and lives
there still.

My home, on the outside
might look like
a shack to some, but inside
it's a mansion with the
most sublime bread you
ever tasted.
Fruit trees in every room.

On the backs of
flies
we wait for the
next thing.
Something is
always coming.
A birth or death,
food or hunger
hatred
laughter
love...

Something is always
coming around the
corner.
The Mad Hatter with
mushroom tea.
A strange color of
blue that tastes like
almonds.
A ****** that sparkles
in the night.

Listless mornings
of languid
walks with the
wife in the cool
of the evening.

A knife in the back,
a shark attack,
or maybe, just
possibly, you write
a poem about
waiting for the
next thing.

this feels brighter
as if the light
has remembered
how to touch skin

the colors of our childhood have come back
crayon blue skies
the chirping
the colors of the flowers
and the smell
oh the smell

not exactly as they were
everything feels like return
but not quite return

and still, underneath it all
a strange quiet
not absence
as if we’ve died so many little deaths
the body has stopped keeping count

this ending feels like
a well-rehearsed ritual
the last page of a book
we wrote in pencil
softly erasing itself
while we smile and say,
yes
this is how it always was
and was always going to be

what a gentle way to disappear
by becoming more visible
by returning, not to youth
but to the myth of it
and letting it wash over us
one final time

like a sky too blue
to believe in
but still, we look up

The sky is heavy with silence
No god speaks tonight
Only the breathless hush of space
spilling into a world
trying not to fall apart

You sit with your knees pulled to your chest,
the sand colder than you thought it’d be
Everything feels like it’s waiting

You try to remember the last time
you truly wanted to stay
Not survive
Not distract
But stay

The waves keep folding into themselves,
and the air smells like salt and sleep
You wonder how the world keeps moving
with so many people lost in their own weather

You think of the way your mother said your name
when she wasn’t angry,
the way a stranger once held a door
and meant it

You think of someone you used to love
and how their absence
taught you everything
about presence

And it hits you
this world, so fragile it cracks under headlines,
still dares to spin
Children still grip their father’s fingers
as if the universe begins in that gesture
Somewhere, someone writes their first poem,
believing it might save them

Maybe it’s not God,
or gravity,
or some grand machine

Maybe it’s
a girl humming a Beach House song
in the back of a half-empty bus,
two people who don’t speak the same language
still laughing at the same dog chasing waves

Maybe it’s this
a soft defiance against collapse,
the way a soul leans forward,
even bruised
Even tired
Maybe it’s the quiet decision
to reach out
one more time

And maybe that’s enough?

I can't close my eyes
tears gather.
I can't breathe
the air is stuck.
I can't gulp
my throat is tight.

I try to plant my dream,
but land is
barren

Still, I try.
Even my conscience
mocks me.