A girl
had seen
the once
hidden
stars before
her eyes,
as small
as they
were,
they saw
a refuge
in the place
she called
tears,
soaring
in the
night, she
gently
lands in
the garden
of the moon,
she had seen
every petal
as a word of
poetry, a
cinematic
scene,
the flowers of
her becomes
a guest within
the heart,
they asked,
“how did
you know
of our
secrets?”
to which
she says,
“I am
love and
so are
you”.

The angels' harps play a sacred tune,
while planets dance around the moon;
In subtle strains our spirits rise,
and leave us grateful and starry-eyed.

Recalling life as it once seemed,
this vision floated inside a dream;
In many days of endless chants,
the angels' harps cause us to dance.

When voices touch each other's hearts,
there's always a sign creating sparks;
And with that strong secure emotion,
then lives connect with pure devotion.

No longer chilled in fears of life,
all folks fly far away from strife;
The added wealth of kinship stands,
as children sing while holding hands.

One day would come
And man won't be needed no more
The life will sustain just so.

I worry about you
Incapable as you are
Of soothing your storms
Into a fit in a second
Unable to get over it
For hours
Anger sends you out of control
Escalation is all you know
Everyone present a target
So everyone goes away
I don’t think that it’s likely
You’ll grow out of it one day

“No strings attached”
said the flute to the violin

“Nothing to pick on”
said the piano to the harp

“Nothing to fret about “
said the drum to the guitar

“Nothing to dance about”
said the minstrel to the musician

father  said
you should
only dream
with open eyes
to see clearly
the rays of lies
dreams are only
made for sleep
not for day
nor light to seek
keep your dreams
beside your bed
and a candle lit
inside your head
keep it there
and keep it where
vision withers
for  no light
redeems or
day delivers
your dreams
once your dead

Edgar Alan Poe is dead. Seriously, I read it.
He died in October 1849 - or did he?
Do we really know?

Poe wrote about death a lot,
he teased with it, it was his favorite tool.
He kept death close and twisted it like a knife.

His profession was the macabre, the shadow,
the summoned dread and the gruesome aftermath.

He was a writer and a critic - what’s more dreadful than a critic?

They say he died from “unknown causes”
- how absolutely perfect.

Of autumn
there is not much to say
brown leaves fall
in healthy decay
white leaks on heads I say
embrace the old
salute the fall
rake the rust
dress for frost
and prepare the coals.