I can,
call you,
the sun,
in the way,
it sets,
and turns,
the sky,
into night.
Yet you,
are also,
the sun,
in the way,
it rises,
and brings,
the day,
into light.
My cup of,
sunshine,
and sip,
of stars,
how you taste,
that of rain,
and take away,
all my pain.
My starshine,
just a touch,
of nature’s,
melody,
and a whiff,
of morningdew.

Sabretooth slivers
on
a
jagged edge
caught in a trap my nightmare ends
flesh in a jam jar
honey
in
my bed
dreaming your way
my
lover
my
friend.

It helps me color inside the lines.
   I paint soft green landscapes instead
   of red hot flames in catholic hell.
   My glass is full of Christ's blood
   that I drink to dream in poet sleep.
   I'll pay my tab in tomorrow's light.

The old poet poses with his worn out lines.
    He's near 80 and written everything that matters.
    Loves, lost loves, betrayals, redemption, children
    recovered from his own disasters. Lines repeated
    they're frayed of their own weight, Autumn's dust.
    Stay with me and view me in Winters graveyard.
    I'm an old poet with a young man's heart pleading
    for an honest appraisal of my balance sheet.

something empty
in my life
feels less empty
when i write