thinking of escape is a prisoners thought
and not all prisons look like prisons do
not all escapes are practical,
but your going to do it anyway
first chance you get, a mind made up
and already you know what freedom is.

What I really need
Is better left unsaid
Its always been a dream
Always I believe
Esmerelda
I see you dancing by the fire
maybe I should tell you that I love you
I guess its better if I don't

What I really need
Is what tortures me
A place to go where I can really be
A place I know I'll never reach
Esmeralda
I see your body casting shadows
The silhouette of a beautiful woman
I guess its better if I don't

What I really need
Is a heaven
A way to feel like I'm alive
I way to hold an angel in my arms
Esmerelda
I see your glorious gyspey eyes
I see my peace in them
I guess its better if I don't

My thanks to the store clerk working the midnight shift
God bless the dishwashers at local restaurants laboring for minuscule pay
To the forklift operators moving freight for hours on end ,
to cleaning crews preparing offices for another day
For the plumber protecting health in the wee hours of
the morn
For sanitation workers hard at work well before dawn

Even this latter
lingering emotionality
will vanish somehow,
masked behind an affable reflection,
but already collapsed
into a black hole.


Bigger and bigger.


Mastery of nothingness
in satisfying myself
as mute, stripped leaves
observing their art
of turning into glow of warmth.


Autumn’s heredity.


Fierce hyperbole is Melancholy,
remote and severe sixth sense,
obsidian monolith
in this too mild dimension.


Melodrama of light
is the vacuum of such empirism
saturated ad nauseum
by the ceaseless delay
of the most natural
and contemptuous ease.

I hear tunes in my head,
It plays to the tunes of Beethoven,
Then slowly ceases to silence.
I hear tunes in my head,
An imagination of what your voice
Sounds like to me.
If I were to choose between the two,
I would always choose the latter
Because I can dive into my imagination
And because nothing can move my heart
Than the sound of symphonies
Orchestrated to sync with the beat of my heart.
I hear tunes in my heart,
The brass that is your breath,
The stringed instruments that ties my heart,
Percussions that matches the beating,
Of my once silent heart.