They tell us to listen to our hearts.
No one teaches us,
What the beats mean.
Whether the skips in between are ok.

They say follow your heart.
They don't teach us to follow its footprints.
Or read a map.
It's easy to lose yourself following faint tracks,
And end up lost and alone.

They don't tell you the heart leaps before it thinks,
No one ever dared question the silence.
It doesn't speak before it beats,
There are a million voices in the silence,
Asking you to take care.
It beats on and on even when you're dying,
It goes on.

I dream of running into the night sky
No one to see me
Or where I've gone
No traceable footprints
No way to feel me
When night creeps along.
I dream of disappearing
No one to know me
Or my name.
I dream of never looking back
to familiar faces
of the past.
I just want to run away and be free
Like the night wind.

Where footprints in the sand once stayed,
                      one is now washed away..
And we look around hoping one day ours
                       will be joined by another's.

Different from before,
                       But for now we walk on the beach
  looking at each sunrise,
                     because there is always another day..

A heart like wintertime -
And it gets dark early.
And it's very cold.

A heart like wintertime -
So all the leaves fall from my trees.
And it's very cold.

A heart like wintertime -
So  my animals run and hibernate.
And it gets dark early.

A heart like wintertime -
So circles of ice float on the surface of my ponds.
Spinning, spinning....

A heart like wintertime -
So I hear the crunch of my frozen pine needles beneath feet.
And the falling snow masks the footprints.

A heart like wintertime -
So long icicles hang from me.
And lips crack and split.

A heart like wintertime -
So heavy snow breaks my branches.
Freezing, freezing...

A heart like wintertime -
So my labored breaths rise as a fog.
And it gets dark early.

A heart like wintertime -
So spider-web frost creeps across my windows.
And it's very cold.

A heart like wintertime,
And it gets dark early.
A heart like wintertime,
And its very cold.

The men kept to themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The women kept to themselves:
they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.
They all kepy to themselves-
dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,
the sharp parasol that punctures
a recently flattened toad,
beneath silence with a thousand ears
and tiny mouths of water
in the canyons that resist
the violent attack on the moon.
The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking
in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,
and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints,
obscure names, saliva, and chrome radios were still crying.
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
it's useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because even the tiny banquet of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese schooner,
nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The countryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots
and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the ocean liners!
Facades of *****, of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night
that spread its legs on the terraces.
Everything is shatter in the tepid faucets
of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!
We will have to journey through the eyes of idiots,
open country where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,
landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples,
so that uncontrollable light will arrive
to frighten the rich behind their magnifying glasses-
the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat-
and so that fire will consume those crowds still able to **** around a moan
or on the crystals in which each inimitable wave is understood.

The first thing I notice are the wrinkles, reflected like dark dancers, moving and bending with the contours of my face. Dully reflected in the vase they join hands and circle around my eyes, my tired lips, my forehead, nestled alongside wisps of silver grey.
Stretching out my own hands I imagine that each line holds a secret, more mysterious than fortune, more real than the future.
I refold my napkin and his, into perfect triangles.
Perhaps some wise prophet could read; not my future; my past - from these creases - and yet I wonder if such a thing could ever be interpreted, translated.
I set them in customary place beside our two bowls, dinner warm within.
I know if it ever were the story would be only half written, most of the paths find destination in those of my husband’s wiry hands.  Those strong and gentle hands – our lives intertwined with a complexity of memories, hardships, pleasures.
I straighten the cream table cloth, draped over loved and well-worn oak.
Those creases remind me of the sand dunes before we leave slow footprints, the rain-trails down our caravan window, Harold’s shirt before pressing.
I watch him return from the stove balancing our hot tea with a delicate concentration, 51 years familiar.
I wonder if his favourite red shirt actually is fading, or if it is just my eyes, or the candlelight.
He calls me darling and sets down my Earl Grey. I smile.
It does seem as though much outside our dining room is waning in its pastel thrum, and I can almost hear the resonance of grandchildren’s gadgets from here.
Just to announce my thought, the telephone rings. And again. And once more.
Technology whizzes around my ears like an unwanted fly.
He says, like he always does, that we will answer the world later, it’s not going anywhere.
He is right, as usual, and I ponder with amusement that we might be going somewhere sooner. A holiday, perhaps.
I smile and nod in gentle agreement.
Perhaps forever.
Unspoken we bow heads in perfect symmetry and he murmurs blessings, move our hands to a perfect cross.
With a sincere Sunday love, he tells me I am beautiful.
I do not reply with words, I cannot. My voice; gone with the tumour.
Reaching out to hold my hand, he turns it over in his. Rubs my ring. Like he always does.
He says he loves my wrinkles more than when I had smooth, porcelain hands.
One single tear, abashed sneaks from my eye.
He says that every one reminds him of another year together.
He converses with my eyes, and listens. Like he always does.
Our hands meld into one in the soft light.
One flawless map
Completed.

Dear Father
I’m alone in a very scary place
And I’m not certain how I got here.
I lost sight of the footprints I was following
And wandered off the pathway you laid out for me.

The wind is cold and the sky is dark.
I just heard screeches from the nearby woods
And this path ends in only brambles.
Kneeling on the rocky ground
I beseech the Lord to rescue me.
He either doesn’t hear my cry
Or this is where I need to be
To learn to never take my eyes
Away from the light that guides me.
ljm

Quit checking for monsters under the bed,
When I realized the only monster was the one in my head.
My buds have blossomed, some even wilted.
To the world I am walking tall, inside I'm way off kilter.
Far from what I once was, yet not sure as to what I am to be.
I've traveled so far, but have so much to see.
I watch as my footprints fade behind.
Can't help, but crave a rewind.
Too hard to constantly look back.
It eats away at me everyday, as a matter of fact.
However, everyday is a fresh start for me.
Stopped leaning on what could have been, & started looking at what could be.
Like riding a bike, there is only one way to keep your balance.
You have to keep moving...that's the challenege.
Take risks, be brave, ignor the interference.
There is nothing in this world that can replace experience.
It's about the places we go, people we meet...things we do my dear.
We must travel in the direction of our fear.
It should derive from your dreams, if not they aren't nearly big enough.
Stand tall with open eyes & keep your skin tough.
I may not have made it to where I want to go, but I think this is exactly where I need to be.
To be honest, it's not easy, but the challenge is adrenaline to me.
You aren't living if you take on the world with stealth.
Life isn't about finding, but instead, creating yourself.
I have realized that elegance is not being noticed...it's about being remembered.
So i don't know about you...but my doubts have surrendered.
Time to start living for the moment with confidence.
After all, we only live once, so start listening to your conscience.
There is a world full of obvious things, that go unoticed everyday.
Mouths full of words that aren't sure how to be delervered in the right way.
Open your senses to feel everything, take it all in.
Let loose and just go with the wind.

It's **** obscene, these best-laid plans
     of mice, of boys, of knuckleballers--
     world-weary one-trick cowards
     plotting courses into safety,
     taking wrong turns on the way

Now I...? I was never good with signs
     green and white--bad with directions.

I'm the walking ghost of a better me
And the guy I used to be and me,
                                      we don't speak.
                      Estranged.
             Roll through each day
             horizon's far from home.

Night blacks out gunmetal grey,
grey-brown slush fills city streets
and asphalt colored X's fill
our blue and coffee eyes
Fade out                          Fall back.
               blizzards come
          Ride out the margins
static clouds fill white-out skies
Skies we grasp for
                           skies we shy from.

lofty climb, now plummet earthward
                       So
         these muddy footprints
         trace out the path I took.

            "What a twist!"
                 Yeah.
                  ****.

~

Where that mist does clear
separating along routes placed of stone
hanging silently in the sky though parted
vertical visions in distant awnings shade
and porch boards creak at the weight of the day
I stare…wishing I hadn’t

First light of day breaks my mind
counting fence post soldiers, lined and ready
barbed wire connections glisten
for dew finds no better place to rest
and footprints fade into words
I listen…wishing I hadn’t

The sun now cries angrily upon my face
draining all desire from wilted pores
claiming a lonely spot in the heavens
creating shadows of a past whim
melting my heartbeat into the pulse of this life
I live…wishing I hadn’t

Dear Someone,

     You are not one person. Yet, in a way, you feel like one. You are every person that I have ever loved. You are the beauty of friendship and the peace that comes with kindness. You are a terrible, wonderful pain that comes with separation. Yet, you are also the hope that is the harbinger of the future. You are the inbetween.

     If I could sum you up in a word, it would, honestly, be love. Although, you can only be love by the sum of your parts, because I feel as if not one of your parts has been significant enough to fill the word with meaning. Love, therefore, is to me as an elaborate dream exists. I feel it, I lust for it, yet I have nothing to hold; no sand or clay to pinch between wanting fingers.

You are the smell of autumn. Your perfume lingers on the boundaries of my memory, excited occasionally by the fallen leaves or the prickling of the cold, whenever it should pass me by. I remember how I associate you with the remaining rays of sunshine, warmth that would press tightly against my white skin, yet somehow the memory always ends with the cold. The days grew short, the rain saturated my worn shoes. I felt nothing from you except a recurring message… think of the joy that you feel when I appear, hope for me when you walk down the lane. Yet, like the musk of fall, you would only appear seasonably. I could not sustain myself on a passing breeze, no matter how enchanting or magical. It has been almost a year and I can’t remember your scent.

You are a footprint in the sand. I remember the feeling, the refreshing cool of the water between the smallest particles of earth as they sunk and swam about my toes, creating the perfect impression and fit around the arches and outlines of my anatomy. I sometimes wonder if the print is as perfect as I remember, but when I try to touch my foot to the mold it is imperfect. Time has warped the space that I once created. Waves have destroyed the path that I walked. Many of my footprints I can no longer see. Others I try in vain to recreate, as the tide rises towards my ankles, and I find that I have returned too late in the day. You are something that I yearn to see again, but cannot. You are too deep underwater and I must move farther up the shore.

You are a beautiful white flower that blooms only in the springtime. By the time that I found you on the tree in my front yard, you were already in full bloom. Your beauty astounds me, even now as I think of you in the middle of the summer, but I missed you bud and I missed you open and blossom. I could only watch as you stood, shining in your final hour in the sun, and cradle you as you fell from the tree on which you bloomed. I could only think of you fondly as you returned to the earth. When it is Spring again, surely there will be more white flowers in my yard, but you are an original creation and no other flowers will be you.

You are a floating seed on the wind. You are captivating. You charm me, but you are irratic. Often I have reached out, hoping to hold you in my hands, but by the time that I notice you, you have already floated well beyond my reach. Often I forget about you until that enchanted moment that you float across my path once more. I am spellbound, inclined to follow you. No matter how far your journeys I am convinced that I will be able to meet you whenever you rest. I am foolish, and you make me silly. My arms become clumsy and cannot embrace you. I lack the grace necessary to capture you, but sometimes I find myself sitting and waiting, hoping that someday you might fall from the wind and land in the palm of my hand, instead of the palm of someone else’s

You are a dream.

You were

Someday is.

Faithfully,
a girl.

The door is shaken awake by the lonely wind
Gently swinging to and fro,
Disturbing creatures still living within
The old sod house on a hill.
Windows were broken out long ago
And now stare blindly at scenes
Stolen away with memory
Along with forgotten dreams.
The winds of time hold an echo
of laughter no longer heard
Who lived there, I will never know.
The footprints having been laid to rest,
Beg to remain undisturbed.

You were trying to cover your footprints in the sand
and only ended up leaving more
a spiral of your perfectionism
look over there -
over the beach houses on stilts
and the fauna - scrap metal bushes and dry, lonely trees -
see how the sun’s kiss sets the sky on fire?
the water is licking our heels with an icy, arctic tongue
we could walk westwards until our silhouettes are vaporized
but the sand is relaxed and this beach is empty
the acoustic guitar is talking in its sleep
ADD children are doing backflips in the backyard

Night crashes and crashes and recedes into the horizon
we climbed atop one another with visions of lunar satisfaction
time slows down and each drop of condensation on the window
contains the secrets of this muggy southeastern air
the strangers are encroaching too thick to think
warped monstrous faces ripe with desire
we couldn’t answer the questions so we burned the test
tinder to our fire so we could ward off the predators for another night
but the ground is growing smaller day by day

Mr. Demon do not deviate from this round of double dutch
my shoelaces are tied together
and I am hopelessly drunk off of your ideas on romance
that mix of sunscreen, sweat, perfume, and your breath
as my fingers prune
we mistook the blinking jet engine for morse code from the stars
once the clouds part we will have an escape route
taking flight with the startled panic of street birds
the earth will shake, the seas boil over, and the clouds will applaud
with wings made of coat hangers, brown paper bags, and masking tape
we will arr through the sky
like fireworks

You have wrinkles at all the creases of your appendages, which gives me no other choice but to believe that angels were the ones to sew on your extremities. They took thread made of silk and carefully attached your body parts together, one by one. With one small kiss from above, the silk dissolved into your skin and the scars turned into wrinkles that i would someday memorize with my eyes closed. Not only did the heaven's create every inch of your body, but your soul as well. You're constantly telling me that old souls are common among those whose bodies look worn in close proximity. But in close proximity, i can't help but see lines of life, not death. You see tire tracks and old skin, but i see footprints in the sand and a body reborn. You see muddy brown pools inside of pure white, but i see a coconut cracked open to let the milk absorb into your body and maybe that's why you melt in my hands. Your voice is like the sound of every hello ever said to me at once. When you sing to me, i hear every soft "goodnight". I would always tell you to not let the bed bugs bite, and if they did, bite them back. But your teeth could never harm a being so vulnerable standing right in front of them, which is why i never bled because of you. I only received tiny black and blue marks on the soft flesh that connects my neck to my shoulder. When i sighed your name, my mouth tasted unworthy and frightened that if i spoke too loudly you might shatter. The thought of you is so fragile and intoxicating that i am consumed by you for hours even after you're gone, wondering if you're safe and tucked in your bed or if you're tucked inside of somebody else's. When i spoke to you, sunflowers sprouted from my tongue just so i could trap my words in something tangible enough to give to you by the handful. But mostly, i swallowed my words along with my pride and sunflower seeds that rooted into my spine. If you're quiet enough you can hear the stems snapping with all the pressure.

When I remember that angels created you, it also dawns on me that you must have fallen from the heavens. There is only two explanations that i could possibly think of for this: 1. You slipped out because you saw that i needed help. Because that is what we do, that is what humans do, they stay alive for each other. 2. You are the devil in disguise. I have to remember not to trust you because the devil was once an angel too. He was the most beautiful angel of all. And i can't help but think, as you lay in front of me with nothing but your grey bed sheets and a smile on your face, you are the most beautiful, astounding angel i have ever met; and i can't help but fear that underneath the hairpin curl of your lips is the devil's tongue.

display of strut, bird-lady departed.
vacuumed in fur during mountain winters.
cocktails at five, tales of life lived.
a modern disease tolled bells.

pecks on a red door, footprints on steps,
twilight brought a royal display from
deep in bush, day after day his noble plumage
green, blue, purple eyes watchful,

a holy farewell.
under an oak at saturday’s end
he returns for an encore of lessons
from heaven. nurture, renewal,

kindness shrouded in ritual dance.
sister protector wears feathers of colour,
imprinted with love, caring whilst fading,
rot taken hold.

peacocks appear, ostentations abound,
another abyss narrowly missed.
evolutionary lessons, true colours unfurl,
she rises from ashes with radiant glow

In the shadows of branches
Without leaves
A lace pattern in the snow
Footprints of little birds
Before a stray cloud obscures the pale sun
The moment is gone.

When they were on the skeptical air, they seemed to feel greenish bunches fallen on the hooves and the frogs of the Alikantus helmet that was appreciated in contrasting imagery in the "V", ignoring possessions in the four patrimonial endowments, to ensure the runaway Supramundis that was waving galloping detached from the tapestries and pictures of Messolonghi. The bed of the plants of Kanti and Alikantus was cracking at the nail of the whitish lunula of their hooves that multiplied behind the substance of Carlo Magno, mounted in his Bayard with four sections riding on the impulses of their caps, in the direction of his cavalry by the Jacobin route upon reaching Zaragoza. The holistic robbery and his ingrown nails were ungulating on the nearby trees in some of his riders, in order to be able to mount them raised and prevent them from ambush. When they supported the third sighting and its third phalanx, chestnuts ungulated in the distal areas of the helmet and of the palfreys that were going to Messolonghi, reducing the number of their fingers, thus in this way they could become dogmatized before the rough ground, and their tendencies in the spaces of Elliniká leptá apó diastima, “Hellenic minutes of space” towards the shortest time of the minutes that allows them to be relocated before reaching Messolonghi. More past than the marked footsteps on Compostela, it was before heading them, marking himself with the anticipated quantum of speed already acquired by Carlo Magno's Bayard, which he carried on his dorsal due to the footsteps of other similar ones that supported him. In the scene of parallel convergence, the troops of the beasts were crossing in different spheres of quantum time, in the adversary of Carlo Magno.

The anatomy of the place was distinguished by the crowds of their marked footprints, and some chestnut frogs repopulating in the contour of the hooves of their hooves, redistributing the impact zones to reestablish themselves, to do the same of their bones in global anti-components. organic materials, to encapsulate and ring them in the fibrous components of the Zefian Virolifero, which had a seismic impact on the collagen of its parallel and on the retracting of the coronary band of its hooves, to extravert energy that will sustain the curbs, before riding back. by all the heights that besieged them, as if they were thousands and thousands of herds bringing their archaic verses from afar. When they felt the repercussions of monstrosity, they found themselves surrounded by feeling themselves in the magnificent metropolis of the chestnut trees, offending the embankment with great impulsiveness in the burnished clouds, paying tribute to Vernarth, and his entourage who glorified them as they navigated together through the skies of Greece, in the semi-human herds of Apollo who went out of their way to lose themselves neurologically, when their feudataries sailed through the atmospheres of the Cyclades, under a pensive aeromorphic figure that appears commenting:

Says Vernarth: “after listening to this amidst the luminous clouds, before taking me from frequent acrobatics, before me Raeder suspended from the heights, he invited me by reciting some odes before heading to Patmos. He briefly illustrated us in quotes about the Messolonghi poets. Raeder, holding firmly to Petrobus's legs, was concentrating, and he was excited, but at the same time very delighted to be coming to his land very soon. Thus the verses would fill him with great spirit to start a new stage. After being very well received by the routes of the temperate sigh, the present wind would take them to Kissamos / Crete, where they will remain flying in the irascible spree of celebrating a great event when they land on this great island. Then they would leave for Kalymnos and Kinaros by the route of the Cyclades, to finally establish themselves in the Dodecanese dominions. Perhaps venturing in boldly by being sublimated by the tiny mists blowing from the Metelmi wind, with the unnoticed shifting Mediterranean climates of the exhausted eastern.

The Sibyl Tiburtina supports Raeder gathering him to her arms and telling him: “You will receive my warmth that will imprison the house of the high priest, whose scene will be represented in Procoro on its corresponding neutral folio. Succeeding in expletives from the past, which was no longer intended or harassed at him. The Armas Christi will once again swirl with the Souls of Trouvere from the last irascible recesses of the Eolonimi winds in the holistic of all the winds that named Vernarth. "Your children will not live again, the military Macedonian will hear", their physical resurrection will flee from the unconverted taking place after the tree of Mars when they liberate the innocent fallen from the versicular belief, which segments the ray in its half where no minute will be able to hit him "

Antiphon of Triburtina: “Son of David they will give us the consorts, by setting the table in the center with the newly molded bread, and his authority will not have to distribute it into the pieces of an earthly life that allows them to bring it to their mouths. We will all be converted singing all the fantasy of giving what should never have remained in our hands, even if they have never been greedy for him. "

We live in golden cities
Paved with golden roads
We bathe in these riches
We don't do what we're told
We don't think to turn around
To look back for danger
We don't think to turn around
Or we're just afraid to
We imagine the only monsters
That we could need fear
Can be taken down with gun
Or are only in the mirror

Our golden cities
And our golden roads
Have begun to bruise and bleed
Our footprints have left marks
That will never recede
Beaten down and torn apart
Morphed from gold
To another shade of wealth
A city of black and grey,
With artificial glimmer
Topped with some patriotic colors
Left in the sun to simmer

We color the blue sky
To match our dreary street
We paint it with the products
Of our unhealthy treats
Tinted with black
Our sky has nothing left to say
Only toxic strings of saliva
To come pouring out its cheeks
The rain can't do us any harm
No more than the food we eat
And the chemicals we drink
So long as you ignore
The patches in your umbrella sink

Someday, our oil city
Will turn into black dust.
Our golden city will be forgotten,
No such thing as golden rust.
Pass it off as legend,
And have people pay a buck,
Just to visit the ruins
Of a turn of "bad luck"
It'll be a "Garden of Eden"
A "Diamond in the rough"
I'll call it dust
And people will say that I'm the bluff

Power is wealth
And wealth is gold
Gold is oil
Or so, it's told.

We live in golden cities
Paved with golden roads.
We bathe in these riches
We don't do what we are told.

Once upon a time,
Golden apples fell from trees.
We'd pick up the apples,
And wipe off the dirt.
We'd pick up the apples,
And eat it like our dessert.
Now, we pick up apples
With big machines
And let them pour out gasoline.
We coat them in chemicals,
A lovely glossy sheen,
And hand them to the kids
While they watch TV.

We walk streets,
Stare up towards skies,
Skies covered with advert lies.
Chemicals in hand,
Antidote in bag,
On a diet,
Of poison and pills.

Look in the mirror,
No one is satisfied.
My, oh my, just what a surprise.
Take a look,
At the world beyond.
Take a look,
Towards everything.
The sky is fading,
And faces too.
We're all dying,
full of modified taboo.

Look, again,
look back towards
The world you missed
The days that you wished
Would come back,
Could be here.
Go on, shed a tear.
It's right to know,
Whatever was left,
Whatever glow,
Can be gone in an instant,
In a blink.
It could disappear
Now.
Or just sink
Into the dead, "Earth" below,
Sink into whatever is left of the known.


We live in golden cities
Paved with golden roads.
We bathe in these riches
We don't do what we are told.

Where was I?
I fell through the sky when they all thought chicken little cried wolf
Somewhere in a black hole sun
A coin stands on it's edge and things aren't what they seem
Bermuda Triangle violently exhaling anomalies
The air splits like a wound when propeller blades start spinning too fast
Eventually we all get ****** into this perfect storm
I hear it's a place where magicians perform
Pull me out of a hat and watch the universe unravel
My heart strings wound too tight
The world collapses like a lung

Where was I?
Always dwelling in ancient libraries
Deciphering unknown artifacts
There's foreign footprints in these catacombs
All these digital files and old photo albums
Analyze, evaluate, re-analyze
Question everything
Metamorphosis manifests
And the chameleon knows how to change it's scales
The world goes off balance when Atlas's shoulders get tired

Where was I
When the sirens sounded their alarm?
Have you seen the basements of my mind?
Charcoal smeared and cold dust
Cluttered and hazardous
Climb out the fire escapes in the thick hot heat of things
Underground bunkers at Hiroshima
Salem burning
There are witches under the house
These tornadoes don't rest
because the scarecrow has a stick up his ***
Where does the lion hide?
Where does the lion sleep when the jungle's on fire?
How does the tin man ****?

Where was I?
Somewhere down the rabbit hole
Running out of time
That ferocious lunar grin
Meet me under the Cheshire moon
In that last lamp light
The toadstools tremble beneath our toes
Did you plant these mushroom clouds for us?
The mad hatter struck a match
and our house of cards is burning down
Why do my hands smell like gas?
I saw you catching ash on your tongue
I guess there's something beautiful in the way things burn
The roses are dripping red
and there's blood on my hands
The dream is gone when the queen cuts off
another head

Where was I?
Always digging tunnels in the ant farms of my mind
Dirt covers up old bodies
I leave them a rose
For paradises lost
For another lost soul
Another Eden gone to hell
Something slithered in the grass when the apple fell
Apocalypse now
But what is it about the way things disappear?

Where was I?
Where is here?

Light crashes
Slowly
Like waves of mind
Within yet without
I let it out with a ******* shout
Fallen transcendant, ascending inverse
Forked tongue recites, verse by verse
Try it, don't deny it, it's true
Outside yourself, within you
The truth you seek is a part of Self
In (sic)ness and in health
it's a ll a part of the game
And everything remains the same
Change
Is constant, resonant, a part of it all
Like the angel and its fall
So good to see what's come to be
Let it flow, let it go, let the goodness grow
I am that I am, and everything as planned
I choose that I am
No footprints in the sand,
But I'm not ******...

Two inches of snow, untrodden
boots digging in, holding on
but when they hit traveled roads
slip

Paths dotted with the footprints
one set, two sets, three sets
four, with all the more to
slide

When the snow is so shallow,
the path less traveled is safer.
And so it reminds me too of
life

In youth, there was hope.
When the footprints in the sand did not clear so easily with the tide.
If you built a sand-castle and promised forever,
The wind would kiss your cheeks and vow the same, taking your
Optimism to the
Sanguine, pink sky.

Thirty years later,
When people and promises are severed,
The wind returns.
What does it carry?
Sorrow, pity or joy—
At the hints of love realized in precious fleeting moments…
Like chocolate—so sweet,
That melts, too quickly, on your tongue.

~

My entire life, days I didn’t even know I existed,
hours I sat in the window staring out
Moments spent walking along empty highways
exhaustedly scanning the horizons
Gazing into the night sky, dreaming beyond the moon
Pacing a weakened floor, counting the creaks
Peering behind shadow coated tree lines,
reaching for that which has eluded me

spent looking for you, not even sure who you were
Just knowing that you were out there
you…it has always been you

Sitting on a curb, head in my hands,
lost within the thoughts of my fate,
dreaming of the darkness which seems to follow me,
I feel a warmth, the cold wind changes
Soft hands upon my shoulders rest
and I look between crossed fingers,
seeing that smile, those eyes, realizing
I have not found you…you have found me

You lift me, I feel light, weightless,
as your lips meet mine, and I see
you…it has always been you

Suddenly it all makes sense,
while feeling time was wasted,
remembering footprints mounting the many faded trails,
sunlight opens a new chapter
proving I was not wrong  
Love has found me and it is
you…it has always been you

in the morning i peel you from my eyelids like wet leaves. still breathing out cold smoke. clutching at an empty space under small light.

yesterday’s lipstick creates footprints across a quest that deems me the villain, i am angrily embossing (could not press the pen hard enough) what does friends mean anyways, what does touch mean without ALL of you touching ALL of me, the invisible rope around my neck is a vindictive love letter explaining how much i do not need you but those words keep me open and pulsing for the day you will curl up in my hands like a sick bird. i will feed you curling ribbons of half chewed words while i curse the clock.

our timing was always movie theater doomed, a sad fate tastes like blackberries, but when my empty bed becomes too much, memories of your wet eyes swell. what could have been, hurts, what could have been makes my dreams wet with tar, what could have been

haunts your harsh hands. but please, keep them on me, eroding the illusion that you

ever

could have stayed

could have loved (me)

Thomas said "Seeing is Believing"
But an optometrist knows that our eyes are like a sieve
Everything the light touches, Simba
Has been filtered by us before it reaches our brain
Unlike what we smell, unlike the sounds which beat into our
Tympanic membrane.

Why is it so hard to believe in what we cannot see?
If we know all perceptible colors, sounds, smells are not all that can be?
When we know that the lenses we wear over our retinas
Bend light to bring our vision into focus
And clearly see Mirages are not Water, but a Reflection of the Sky
It's hocus pocus to believe only what we can perCEIVE with our senses
When we hardly receive the world as it is.

The birds can see the infrared and ultraviolet
Snakes can taste temperature, and a map of your warm footprints
Dogs can hear ultrasound, like young children and deer pick
Up high-pitched frequencies whereas adults can no longer
See Santa Claus or Jesus or "Imaginary" Friends

Something about being human
Or maybe its just getting older,
Makes us too cynical and blind
To recognize rainbows and dark matter.

Ask the Giver to give me back my sight and feeling
Because I am reeling with the realization that I live
In a mere sliver of the Entire Spectrum
And can only contemplate it with a tenth of my mind.

the rain has come
finally
first in thunderous
clould burst
big fat pregnant drops landing
labouriously on
the dessicated dirt
leaving craterous footprints
as evidence of a
glorious dance

more fall to the cloud's internal beat
a steady rhythmic fall
into the mudpit dancehall
that once was dry dusty street

the rain has lessened
now wavering
between drizzle and mist stragglers late,
to raindance fall ball.

Where was it I left off? Oh yes, the rebellion of a slave to its master

I Believed my deceitful heart knew the way, but the way to disaster

As the days visited me and went, the colder I grew, and the more beauty fled

I scratched, I punched, I kicked, I hit the doors to try to break them open... and continuously I bled...

My eyes grew white and blind... so I could not see the destruction I was causing to myself and around me...

I was so certain that this hall was the hall where my life would unfold, where I'd find everything I could ever need...

Skin chipped away, muscles scrapped slowly down to the bitter bone...  I refused to have anything heal

I made a blood pool mess of pride at the entrance... along with a few puddles of a broken deal...

My God did not leave me though... He was there... but within spirit... but I denied it...I didn't care about my loss of purity

"Do you not have trust?" A young blonde servant whispered, kneeling to my level of insecurity...

"Why continue to make your self suffer when you can rise again?"

"And what reason would I have to rise? My desired fellowship will never amend..."

I intended to be rude to show her kindness and words were not welcome here

"You sound as if our Master is unfair... You doubt him.. you doubt his decisions, His choices, it's that clear..."

"You must be in His favor... To be so hopeful and life filled... Do you even have the slightest taste of suffering?"

Her knees laid in my pool of blood, her blue jeweled eyes stared into mine, my mind constantly puzzling

Closing those sapphires, and reopening them brought forth a vision of her past or tormenting love and tears

" Foolish girl... You're selfish to believe you are alone in this feeling... I was ONCE lock in your cell... Trapped by fear"

"And there are more down another hall who would know that pain all too well... Please... arise and come with me..."

"Why?.... What's the point when I have already fallen and failed and there is no possible better beauty..."

"They can answer your doubts and questions since they have had the same shoes..."

".... but I'm too blinded to even see my self... all I see is strangely you.." I tried to look down... but pain wouldn't allow me to move

"Then I guess you have no choice but to trust me... Do you think you can treat your wounds if you can't even see your own body?"

Anger irrupted inside of me... Only because I know this Blonde was right. So with her guiding hand, I rose to my feet

My soul screaming and shouting... Begging to rebell... but how could I? My body was dying and in defeat...

One warm white skinned arm wrapped around my brittle waist to guide me to the other side of the castle

A trail of blood footprints followed behind me... As I felt the connection between my flesh and the beaten door hassled

Trying to carefully slip away... I could feel the strength in her arm... there was no escape

So off me and this Blonde went... Leaving behind the hall that I want and also, or so I thought, the Hall God had planned and shaped...