I am hopelessly muddled
by the unglazed
remembrances of you
that have been scattered all over
in an already mazed
world
and I am on the ground
whirled

Death is lurking in the shadows
and grief seems to draw me near you through heart throes
Sorrow bounds me with you I suppose
as your absence glares

love me not
if you cannot
see me not
if you don't mind

life the villain
you the hero

I have walked
many miles
within myself
towards me
because walking
outwards is
solely impossible

I sit against the boulder
Listening to the thuds and barks off my shoulder

As I get older
Life does not make me any bolder

It is only getting colder
Losing the ones around once they get closer

poetry is like a cake mold
you bake your emotions in a durable and everlasting story told
first, the sides and the bottom, all the visible, explicit but fluid feelings cook to hold
leaving all the others in the inner, implicit, middle no room, and therefore all become bold
everything domes and rises in a deliciously hardened gold