I am exhausted by strength today.
I’ve often pretended to be a mighty oak fighting the storms
Often fought the strongest winds while standing there in the open
Alone and compelled to fight
My wars, and most of the time theirs
Bewildered and forlorn
Glorifying the oak in me
Yet I have always ended up crooked, scarred, and broken
Unaccepting to the message of reality
That there will always be lulls and long despairs
And a lot of battles that you cannot choose
But will still try to find someone
Who’ll help me gather the fallen sticks, my gnarled and withered twigs
To create something beautiful
While I find again my quiet strength, my calm courage amidst any storm

and so I search
again
it is still there
fading
unnoticed
into the otherwise glowing abyss
this incredibly beautiful
incredibly lonely universe
this dying star
from eons past
a silent twinkle of light
if we happen to be looking
but the cries go unheard

the real poem is not in the words
but in the thought...
the well of feelings
in which it was created
the true painting
is not on the canvas
but in the vision...
the caverns of the conscious mind
the beauty of love
is not just a kiss, a smile, a touch...
but rather the moment
of it's inception

the poet, the artist
the creator unknown
all conspiring to bring
Life
to our thoughts

I've had this dream before
somewhere I've been
her face familiar
from long ago
our conversation guided by acquaintance
it moved along in black and white
we walked among old ruins
and buildings long since unoccupied
through rooms of faded paint and old portraits
their frames thick with dust
outside we strolled through what appeared to be
a family graveyard
she stopped
turned and said 'do not be afraid'
stepped away from a headstone which carried my name
'after this life we shall be together'
she kissed my cheek and I was awoken
by the thunder of an oncoming storm