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Parkinson's is not a stranger—
it's the shadow in the room
I try to staple to the wall
but who always finds a seat
staring at my hands
like they're already his.

He is jealous—jealous of the clay
that once softened beneath my thumbs
jealous of how my fingers
could command a world into form—
curls and strands of bolts and wires
shapes and contours of emerging faces
from nothing but faith and patience.

He wants to take that all away—
he wants to steal away my hands.

My hands—
the ones that pointed at shooting stars
and said There, son, wish.
The ones that held sorrow like it was glass
and never let it shatter.
The ones that cupped water
from a mountain stream
built sandcastles and kingdoms
wrote love letters and goodbye notes
and every poem in between.

Parkinson's is not polite—
He shakes me not to wake me up
but to remind me I am falling apart
in small bite size morsels—
inconvenient razor-sharp tremors.

He wants to convince me
that every stroke of my pen
is an affront to gravity—
that each line I draw
is a negotiation with more failure.
He leans close and says,
Why bother, brother, sculpting worlds
with hands that no longer listen



These hands—weathered and worn out.
They have kissed a thousand stories into being
held loved ones in the rawest nights
lifted others from the floor of themselves.

These hands are ink-stained prophets
keepers of promise and possibility.
I have built entire universes in my palms
and no thief—no trembling thief
in the guise of a disease—
will erase what I have made.

So if Parkinson's comes,
hands outstretched,
grinning like he owns my ending—
I will raise my broken fists
however crooked, however cracked
and I will write one more verse
before every period,
from every last stanza
from every poem
I ever wrote
rains down on me.

He can shake me—
but he will never steal the art
I already gave to this world
to just make me into a caterpillar
with broken hands and broken wings.
You kept me
together
with gauze—
pressed into wounds
that you never meant to heal.

Each breath
a slow infection—
a fever you wore
just to sweat it out—
cut another slice
of time.

I stayed—
stitched beneath your silence
warming the decay—
not knowing
I was the wound
all along.
We begin
with bright signs—
a word
with more behind
than beside.

Then comes
the grind—
mean days
mean moods
the thinning
of too much
being kind.

It could end there—
small hurt
gone tired—
but sometimes
we go back
not to what was
but to what
was wired deeper.

Meaning less
becomes meaning more—
not loud but sure—
two hands
looking for something
worth knowing—
two hands
not clinging
choosing to stay.
There will always be dark of night,
It is a common human plight.
Often it's hard to move throughout the black,
But what you'll find if you keep moving,
A kindling of light,
Never leave behind a dream.

I miss you
I miss you too


Life will knock you down,
It seems to be the only thing it really knows,
But in the face of doubt,
Move about,
You will come to find,
It's hard to keep inside the night.

May I still hold her when the sun dips well bellow the sea
Tell me lord, may I still praise her if there is dark?


In times of doubt you must stay strong,
Far away from backhanded thoughts,
Never let love waver,
Reinforce it with iron arms,
Be calm with the winds of night,
Condemn this mortal spite.

Never doubt that I am here,
I will hold you safe from the tendrils of fear.


But once it's found,
You fear losing this light,
The piece of love you found,
Within the blinded world of now,
Don't be worried
For if you worry it is destined to leave.

I love you,
I love you too.
Inspired by my love, every time I almost lost my love, the faint piano that plays in our souls, and every little grace of our skin.
You don't
have to flinch—
the branch
that bends
won't break
from a wind
that means
no harm.

Fear
is bark
that peels
without
a wound—
as if
no one
could offer
a soft cover
for you.

Love
isn't a task—
it’s shade
when you
feel bare—
it's the quiet
that stays
when you
don't ask.
  5d November Sky
Lyle
dread
weighs
heavy
as
anxiety
grabs
hold
and
slowly
kills me
We often say
nothing but stay.

A spark
on chill days
when the power
ran out
the quiet
beside the ache—

No fixing
no fleeing
just being
a warmth
that lasts.
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