Throw your blankets over the past, Summer's gone,
And Winter bites the flesh-buried bones.
Wrap up your heart,
Pack it away in napthalene,
The sun now looks through other windows,
Others will have warmth and company.
Light a candle against the dark,
Set a table for one, the night is yours alone,
To watch the shadows on the farthest wall
And question where, and why, love has gone.

The dream was bigger than both of us could hold.
Sleep now. Let it pass. Move on.

Beyond the bend in the river
Past the mountains and the seas
Far away from the ice sheets that make us shiver
Through the whatevers and the what will be's

There is a place of light and sound
Of good vibes and beeting drums
Where down is up and squares are round
And the slow are fast and the smart are dumb

In this place you have no face
Nobody judges and nobody cares
We are blind to color. We are blind to race
Nobody whispers and nobody stares

In this land so different from our own
We will live in perfect harmony
People are free to search and roam
And whatever will be will be

In The Land of Whatever
-

Close your eyes.
Do you see it?
Those little lights?
You are almost there.
Almost.

you know, i keep having this dream.
in it, you are smoking your
last cigarette. in silence,
you watch the crumbling of ash.
all the time, i had my eyes on
you. so fragile and thin.
like second-hand smoke,
i breathe you in.

you know, i keep having this dream.
in it, darkness enshroud and we
share a kiss. not then, but
i realise it now;
the smouldering smell of wildfire
burning, my breath when our lips touch.
like a phoenix rising from the ashes,
subterranean love on fire.

you know, i keep having this dream.
in it, you stand quietly in front of a
drawer full of clogged words.
lifting your hands as if in prayer,
you spit out heartfelt words that
never stood the test of time.
i hold your hand and you whisper in
my ear:

it was only a dream.
just like you.

Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.

I **** at writing poetry, but I do it anyway
Because life is an absurd struggle in
An impersonal universe, thus rendering
All efforts ultimately meaningless,
If that's the case, why shouldn't
I write bad poetry? If we are to, as
Camus says "imagine Sisyphus happy"
Then I'll keep rolling this metaphorical
Boulder of frustrated creativity up the
Mountain of artistic expression, in the
Misplaced hope that just maybe,
One of these times, instead of rolling
Back down and adding one more instance,
To that large pile of abject failures that
I've accumulated throughout my life,
It will stay at the top, rendering me
Successful, and making one of these
Jumbled word salad tangents into
Something that's actually worth reading.

...probably not gonna happen, though.