As the golden ribbons
of sunset's light,
bow to nightfall's birth,
the purple evening clouds set sail,
like balloons above the earth.

The ocean waters darken,
the horizon starts to fade,
starlight diamonds dimly grace,
this grand blue yonder stage.

To those I know,
to those I love,
to those I hold as true,
this sailor bids adieu to you,
good night lost souls,
till morrow's bloom.

Be still my heart,
for the compass of this breeze is not yet known.

Hold fast my pulse,
for this rose's thorns are not yet numbered.

Be as an oak, my trembling knees,
for this current's vim has yet to peak.

Be still my heart,
for this swan has yet to sing her song.

Here is the womb of life,
the death of our mind's night.
New eyes that long to open,
new wings that spread to flight.


An awakening of the hands,
souls shed ephemeral strife.
The heart here born new purpose,
in this the womb of life.


No god, no king, no roots hold might,
each one so frail in this new light.
For here stands love, its meaning right,
here is the womb of life.

I do not bewail the transient era that is youth.
For in it, I was blind to the grandeur that is life.
I was ignorant to love,
and incognizant to its importance.
Beholden to no strength,
nor wisdom, nor virtue,
I possessed no constitution that would urge nor encourage me to continue to love,
even in the depths of love's absence.
My existence bore no understanding of the gravity of human life,
the influence of trust,
nor the sageness of compassion.
Tomorrow was assumed to be guaranteed
and there was no urgency to my short time alive.
All that was before mine eyes,
the air in my lungs,
those who stood beside me and those now gone,
were all taken for granted.
Tonight, these hot sea winds blow the amber coals of my cigarette back upon my face as unwelcomingly as the unwanted memories of my imbecilic youth.
It miss it not.
Let the clock spin.
Bring me those ephemeral decades,
for they only make the wine taste sweeter.

Oh, my little apple sweet hummingbird
the many ways I could eternally brand my memory
into your moistest of dreams.

The ways I could massage your soft thighs with my tongue,
and as a newly sprouting tulip bud
tenderly weaves through its young, enveloping petals
part your two, warm, wet butterscotch lips
and caress the depths of your most taboo desires.

I could ****** into you like a train
with gushing waves of carnal lust.
The flavor of exploding stars
rocketing from your honeypot
to the most love starved chambers
of your throbbing heart,

crashing the ideas of love and lust together
with such passionate force,
not even god could tell them apart.

My little runaway,
You sneak into my bed
under the cover of night,
and hide yourself under my blankets
till the morningtide.

The soft blue glow of dawn,
laying across your gentle face
like a sheet of silk.

No sounds in the room,
just the beatings of our hearts.
Two souls in perfect isolation.

Like the first early notes
of morning bird's hymns,
a single, soft,
euphonious note,
gently woven into a restful
sigh of slumber's gratification
softly kisses our morning
quiescence to life.

My heart skips two beats
at the sound of your sleepy
little honey-sweet voice,

"..will you marry me.."

The whole room seems to smile.

Your little arms wrap snugly around me,
your apple leaf eyes look up at me,
begging for just one more hour
of loving rest before you have to
run away again.

Poor little girl. Stupid old man.
She could not talk,
He could not dance.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She wanted to see the world,
he'd seen it all before.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She could run and climb the hills for hours,
he could only sit and smell the flowers.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

Her love spread free, her heart thumped proud,
his pulse it barely made a sound.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She needed to be needed,
he just wanted to be loved.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

Her smile was bright, and shone like gold,
His eyes were grey and growing old.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She would dream in vivid color,
he'd reminisce in black and white.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She wanted to swim in all the streams,
he longed only, for one lone sea.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

She liked to whisper, lips to ear,
He only spoke aloud and clear.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

He wanted to build,
she'd only dance in her dreams,
things never felt,
as they'd make them seem.
Poor little girl. Stupid old man.

We spent today singing of tomorrow,
but tomorrow never came.
With naive hearts we wrote undying love songs
to transient deciduous souls.
We mockingly sat deaf at the foot of wise men's lectures
while we barked mute revolutions.
Brains thrashed in dormant bodies,
celebrating enlightened states of nothingness.
We played with our lives
the way a child plays with a gun,
and we spent today singing of tomorrow,
but tomorrow never came.

Little sparrow, fly for me,
on the shoulders of this ocean breeze.
High above these waves so fierce,
far across this blackened sea.

Fly to the shores of golden sands,
o'er emerald trees and plain's expand.
Don't rest your wings, or hesitate,
this desperate errand i command.

Fly through her window, there she'll be,
plead her lips to speak so free.
For these long days that i've been gone,
weigh on my heart, a painful song,

...ask her...

Does her tender heart still wait for me.

Cast away your anchors,
break away your chains,
never mind your roots or home,
free blood in your veins.

As you sail across the waters,
and roam across the lands,
in search of that lost question,
"what makes a man, a man"

Trust only in your heart,
hold tight to love's right hand,
for the wild will bring more suffering,
than you can understand.

We come to you with bright shiny faces
and wounds still fresh from the womb,
grabbing at anything cool.
We pretend to be naked and drink from the fountain of delusion.
The fountain of truth is too cold to swallow.
The castle gates of benevolence have been opened,
and with hedonistic indoctrination
we crash into the streets
in search of instantaneous wine and blind absolution.
We bathe in drive-through lust.
We crave the warmth of a cold pillow.
We dine on theoretic chaos
and pay with inherited coin.
We caress the blade of uncertainty with our tongues.
We adore our futile reflection in mirrors.
We scoff at inevitability.
We will always be hungry.
We will always want a better place to play.

As two flowers swaying on a hill,
standing side by side,
who can only touch and feel their kiss,
when the wind blows them together.

Each momentary tickle of your tender little petals,
send waves of love and joy carefree,
before the wind pulls you away from me.

And I can only wait and marvel,
at your colors in the sun,
until that bittersweet wind will come and blow,
our longing blossoms together again.

So close but yet so far.

In fruitless tradition,

I kneel at the alter of memory

in this garden of loss and souls.

An insoluble desire to court heartache,

To renew a dark corner of the heart,

through the bitter winds of time.

But only ever illuminate

that which will never be again.