Falling snow settles atop a tree,
Gathered gently on each branch.
Still other snowflakes dance gleefully,
Tranquility at a glance.

When you floated through my life
I couldn’t meet your eye
I was down scrubbing drenches
But your smile made me high

It hurt when I fell
Trying to reach your stunning grace
It takes more than worn hands
To touch an angels face

I wish I was everything that you deserve
But my feet are nailed to the floor
My arms hug my straight jacket
My body contorted and sore

Maybe I’ll see you again
When I fly with tinkered wings
They’ll melt if I catch you
They’re not the real thing

What I would give to write happy words,
To string together a poem
That left you and I assured
Of the warmth of a sunrise, swiftly ushered
By the chorus of blue jay prose

But each of these words is dyed black
By thoughts with no start or end,
Lilac, light, and love would lack
True meaning written by an insomniac
Who jrekkers with the Jabberwock

I envy you, you whose thoughts soar
Lift us with your feathered pen,
Impart the fervor you store
In each tranquil rhyme and sanguine metaphor
I’m glad for you, you poets.

Cordon off what some may will
A date set for ruin,
Ashes stain the pedestal
Embers scatter deep within,
Passions burn white knuckles black
Regardless of who holds them,
But don’t allow the slightest crack...
Lest the pedals scorch the stem

The stream leaves my eye as it threads
Between muddy arms,under swaying grass,
With darkened stones nestled snuggly in its bed
Stalked by a hound reflected in amber glass
Playfully raising front paws to fall and splash

Though she tired beneath the cloudless july sky
The hound did not enter the stream's embrace,
Her longing whimper and the streams cool reply
Still echo in my skull's subspace

What something held her tail I can't recall
But she tired and layed down to rest
In soft brush n' pleasant light n' long before sun fall
Shedding the vigor she had professed
She shut the light from her eyes and slumber soon commenced


Far from sight, the stream trickles on
And the hound snores at my feet,
The remnants of their meeting gone
But for those held in my seat

Drift on drift on but rhythm run
And timber flail with the rolling throng
What little lies in wanting yet waits
for not all waiting want doomed to rot

But wait but wait beasts heart do beat
For tragic fear and demented dreams,
Of drowned minds and blinded crowds
Of crashing hooves and shattered screams

Ribble rabble and squalor squabble
over thoughts that streak between their feet
May one grab hold and its secrets unfold
A world without waiting or babble

A gale tramples over fallen doors,
And desperate faces cling to a quivering flame, yet
No wall can reach their shadows.

I stand there  shuddering with each lash
from the ice beyond the hearth,
A slow trickle from its toil dyeing the rubble at our feet. But still
No heads turns to face the dark.

I only know every spark withers and dies as it drifts from our circle, though the brightest voyage furthest into the night.
Looking beyond I am neither trapped nor free, but destitue
It is not resolve, courage, or despair that now turn me; I am lulled and must wake.

All thoughts deceive. Thoughts of men inspired, of gods deranged, echo in me,
And which is worse I do not know.

So tonight I will follow the sparks into gale,
Let the lash scour my ears of every voice,
And hope no man foolish enough to follow.