Step by step,
no louder than breath—
I walk beside
what isn’t mine to name.

No banners,
no blueprints,
just this sound
of stone learning softness.

You open a window.
I keep the door unlatched.

Let fear finish its echo.
Let the dark chants drift.

Not all ruin is ending.
Some of it
is soil.

Sundays are made for God and for poetry.
For they both can see us fully through.

Pleasure seems only recognizable
after breeching the membrane of pain.
We were a beautiful catastrophe.
Sun after slashing rain.
Questioned by the sane.
Velvet and volatile.
Looking back at the stretches
of  blackened miles.
At all our infinite tries.
A sunrise and sunset were never destined to occur together.
You are my painful, passionate chance at never......

Rain oozed down the windshield.
Like ants, people scampering about
their unexamined lives, dodging raindrops.
The sky and her liquid laugh.
Earth's in charge here,
although some ego's would beg to differ.
Rain is not selective,
it pours down on the lives of everyone,
regardless of your status.
Whenever and wherever it wants.
Leaving puddles of its existence.
So go get wet.
Get soaked.
Feel alive.
The inventor of the umbrella,
never felt free inside.