I saw you in winter,
and thought of tree branches feathered by starlight in poorly lit neighborhoods. A hearth where the more honest parts of myself, I am bared fetal, warmed upon, welcomed.

I saw you in spring,
and thought of long drives in the countryside in the rain. Ice cream melting from our chins dancing petrichor upon our toes, kissing by the sea shore.

I saw you in summer,
and thought of sleepy boathouses, uncovering ancient childhood treasures in the woods. A secret lake somewhere, the sky's reflection in promise. Windy hilltops upon which to blame each other for the sunrise.

I saw you in autumn,
and thought of scarfs and cafes, city streets and sunsets where we watched each others breath escape. Apartment staircases where windchill hibernates, the world slowing down around us from your window.

The first time I saw You, I thought to myself, "I could live there."

A yellow fever burns with anger.
Mothers fill with a sense of danger.
As towns die and graveyards grow,
A carpenter’s child waits for snow.
Many lives this fever will take.
While others say this horror is fake.
This carpenters child is the only smart one.
For this fever only strikes on a hot days sun.
When winter comes and cools the air
the fever’s anger will disappear.
In the winter it hibernates.
So, dear child please wait.
In a land they is free
Yellow Fever struck in 1793.

A Verse In Time: A Trickster’s Alchemical Approach to Memory in Three Waves

(Warning: The following collection contains depictions of three waves
of the psychedelic experience—particularly with God’s allies, Los Aliados, the mushrooms—and like the psychedelic experience each wave possesses its own waves within itself.  Ride with discretion.)

.

Wave I: The Allies’ Nursery Rhyme

The Allies
came to visit
and take me
on a trip.
No need for boat
or bus
or plane
or even rocket ship.
The galaxy, as they explained
resides inside your mind,
The portals to the universe
are windows you call eyes.
Instead of always looking out
you should try to look within.
The ending you have always feared
is exactly where you begin.

Yes, all the spans of time and space
exist in you behind your face
and yet you cannot understand
that nothing is a race.

Oh wait, please be careful with that mirror
when we are here and you draw nearer.
Don’t let the face of everyone replace your face with fear.
You are Horus, Mary, Jesus Christ, Cervantes, and Shakespeare,
and all the men from beast to mice, from oceans down to tears.

And so they pried behind my face
and pushed me on through outer space
and soon enough I understood
there never was a race.

It all exists right here, right now—
the past, the future, the grass, the cow,
the vast, the nature, the cash, the house,
the king and the savior
the beast and the mouse
are all your creation,
your relation,
your spouse,
your Path,
your Bible,
your ‘Gita,
your Tao.

It is all
of your moment,
It is all
of your now.

For you are the mystery
of that which you seek.
You invented the minutes, the hours, the weeks,
the deserts, the rivers, the valleys, and peaks,
your digits, extremities, elbows, and knees.
You created the cure, you invent the disease.
The labyrinth is you and
You defeat it with ease.
To master the Minotaur just follow the string
Discover the dinosaur, discover the king,
discover this grandiose song that you sing,
and uncover the truth of the message you bring
when you ring bells or

Stroke piano keys
and make the doctor sweat.
The pranksters shifting shapes again,
it’s time to make a bet.
With silly laws of threes and fives, this riddle I repeat, replies
that by the time the rhyme is over, the trickster will arrive.
Gliding up in cycles by, the prankster grins and winks his eye.
He fabricates a fluffy fix with fuzzy snow white lies
to bring the doctor to a six then down to four inside
and bring the tempest to a wave
on which the four can ride.

Do we glide?
Do we slide?
Do we fly really high?
Do we bobble and sink
with the rise of the tide?

I remember the brink
the cellular stride, the following leap,
the primitive mind
I remember the dirt, the water, the fire,
the wind and the ether,
the passion, desire.
I remember that art
can never expire.

Do we depart?
Do we retire?

The answer is yes,
The answer is no,
The answer’s the same wherever you go.
It’s never too fast,
it’s never too slow
and you are never the last to not really know.
For the sun always shines,
the moon always glows,
the old always die,
the young always grow,
The seeds that you plant
are the trees that you sow,
from the bees and the ants
to the bulls and
black holes.

It is all
in your stance.
It is all
in your
soul,

When you follow your dance
the bliss
takes control.
Take your place
in the play
and master
your role.
The Aum
is your home
it’s inside
of your dome,
Whatever
you wonder,
Wherever
you roam.

And so it flows behind my face
the universe of time and space
Now I understand that time
is invented as the race

Yes, you are Borges, and Buddha, and Krishna,
and Lorca, and Vishnu, Dickinson, Lennon,
Eliot, Gandhi, Marley, McKenna,
Campbell, Picasso, Alpha, Omega.
You are your enemy,
your stranger,
your neighbor.
You are the peasant,
the king,
and the savior,
the mandala man,
the cosmic *******.
You are the taste
You are the flavor
and you are
the wave
the unwavering
Creator

Even us
as they explained
merely extend from you
A mirror to the macrocosm
for you to gaze into.




So when you get lost
within your lies
and cannot find
your rhyme,
Gather inside with your
Allies
and master
the maze
of
time.


Wave II: Contemplating The Allies’ Advice

Thunderbolts of cackling giggles
shutter through your vitals, shaking shoulders
and squirting tears from squinting eyes.
Exciting when dimensions hidden creep into your line of vision,
morphing mapping iridescence with a fleeting fuzzy phosphorescent
undulating elfin presence following your every contemplation.

Concentrating on a caterpillar crawling up the wall
how curious, this furry beast has fingers not to fall.
He folds into his fuzzy form, a sleeping bag to keep him warm,
a little home as still as lead.  He hibernates and contemplates,
waits and waits and transmutates into a gilded butterfly
that flutters through my head.

Violet translucent landscapes bleed through grass and trees,
focus on a precise place of time and space and witness the birth of the human race.  Projections made in fuzzy fourth dimensions quickly fade
if your gaze should wander.  Positioned to ponder,
you plunge into prepubescent wonder as a shooting star splits the sky wide open revealing heaven and everything under the sun is tune and the sun is eclipsed by the moon.  And once again, the music comments chronologically on your moments, as if all these notes and lyrics were cataloged to sync with the scenes of your epic voyage.

Destroying contemplation again, the sea ***** the wind through the trees
and blows a blue marine breeze through your hair.
Do you dare take the time to recognize the punctuality of the gale?
Should your frail and fragile mind be dangled from a line
to flap and fluff and figure out the nature of the rhyme of our mother?
You are your brother, your keeper, and your lover.

All the lines align and oscillate in cadenced flow,
the more you see with your mind the more your mind will know.  
A ****** brain may strain and throw a fit
if faced with the tricky truth of the third eye
Surprise! Who knew that Jesus Christ could sprout from cow ****?
Can you believe it?  Wow, Bob, wow.
Where do you think we got: ******* and holy cow?
Heaven is the here and now
and every time you try to leave
you lose what you have found.

(* All words in italics come from    
   various songs, films, works of        
   literature, etc. and are not the words    
  of the author.)


Wave III: Los Aliados Wake

An apple carries a story deeper than the tree,
More nourishing than the luscious skin,
More central than the seed.
for the apple gave original sin
and knowledge from within
and fell upon the head, announcing gravity.
Have you ever heard the tale of Johnny Melon seed?
(The apple is global, so I wonder why,
what could be patriotic of pie?
Is it not just a strudel,
a pastry disguised?)

The colors we create
distort. manipulate.
The fools who follow fear
are doomed to find their fate
between their ears
where the colors seem
to blend and stream
and almost disappear.
To wonder why we’re here
all colors must appear
and merge into the blinding light
that obliterates our fear.

All your dreams, your fantasies, your symbols, and beliefs,
all a compass pointing you to endless mystery.
The treasure that you seek
resides inside the Self,
A jewel within the rock,
A book upon the shelf.


I bought the ticket,
I’m taking the ride.
I’m spiraling miles through the bowels of time.
I’m spinning and laughing
and losing my mind
and finding
it always returns
just in time.
It’s right where it left me,
so I’ll leave it behind
and return when
I’m ready
to relish the ride
with a bite
from the apple
of my
holy
third
eye.

dusty books, pages thin and frail
like my mothers bones
decaying and oxidizing - the words fade
when the ink deteriorates
but that doesn't mean they weren't there
you tied a string around my teeth
and ran south for the winter and with each
step you took, a tooth would pop out
a constant reminder that you are no longer
here, but i wonder when i will run out of teeth
or when you will run out of earth
i sat on a friday night indulging myself
in stories and delicately counting the paper cuts on my fingers
but the dainty cuts will never compare to that time we ate cake
until our stomachs became flour, milk, and eggs
and you told me you loved me
then left to **** yourself
drowning in exhaust must be a silent way to go
and that cake won't taste very good in hell
i would know
recall your earliest memory and
divide it by all the unrequited stares
and thats how much i wish you would
untie my teeth, or stop running
and count the number of goosebumps painted on the
back of my neck and that is the
equivalent to the number of ovens you
accidentally left on
but I'm begging you to understand how immense
the ocean is because thats a very long way
to suffocate and salty water
will burn your wounds
Mariana's trench is a dark place
and the letters you wrote me reproduce on the bottom
not even the ugliest scar can revive my flesh that was chained
to those messages
but the meteor craters lick my surface like chloric acid
and all i wanted to do was repeatedly brush my teeth with the ocean sand
and clean my eyes out with mermaid tears
because you left a sickly residue that
hibernates under my fingernails
so next time you open your trunk
and find a mountain of broken glass
just remember that i loved you
i lost my fingers for you
i sold my soul for yours
but it wasn't even close to enough
what else do you want?
should i drain my blood until i am a desert of a human
shall i cut off all my hair?
and even then ill have an eternal debt to you
but you just turn the other cheek
so the plywood under my elbows
applies pressure to my spine
condensed newspapers stuck in the follicles
of the rain drops
but you don't even care

This is a Pilut, it’s very neat.
It cannot walk, it has no feet.
Its roots grow up, its flowers down,
Tucked safe inside the dirt and ground.
How does it this? How does it that?
Starting with how it gets energy from fat.
A rabbit hops by, staring in wonder,
Why the roots are above,
As opposed to down under.
Suddenly the rabbit will feel great dismay,
As the roots latch on and take it away.
Down to the flowers, the roots will bring bunny,
For the gruesome feast that is not at all funny.
It will travel through the stem
To a very tight trap.
Bunnies fat is consumed,
And that is just that.

Another question is how does it grow?
A Pilut’s growth rate is in fact very slow.
It waits a whole year
For the dust storm to near
And then grabs on small particles,
That stretch it a mere.
One inch or two
Will just have to do
‘Cause oversized Piluts, there are just a few.

An important question that’s been asked before,
Is how these strange creatures tend to make more?
Piluts reproduce not very many others,
Being hermaphrodites means they’re both dads and mothers.
When the wind blows, two roots much touch.
There is slight chance of this, so time it takes much.
That one simple “kiss” for Piluts is renowned,
Fertilizing an egg and setting it down
Beside its parent, deep underground.
That egg then grows off of minerals from the dirt
‘Til it’s big enough to eat animals,
for it’s no longer a squirt.

It’s made of hundreds of cells, maybe even more;
Organized in a way that no one’s seen before.
It digests in the stem,
Breathes through the leaves,
A remarkable system
You have to see to believe.
It hibernates in winter,
As response to the cold.
Maintains homeostasis
With extra energy it holds.
A Pilut is an organism indeed.
It has all signs of life, as you can read.

Shallow,
but a rumble,
that scratches at the surfaces,
growing, growling, rumbling,
till trembling,
ricochets around the cavity,
building up,
bursting through,
up, out, everywhere,
outside shaking,
heart quakes.

Like a twenty-two pound hummingbird,
is beating, flitting,
inside.
Thrumming wings,
sending vibrations,
shuddering.

The flower,
once filled with sweet nectar,
drained dry,
sickly sticky,
a vivid hue,
turned grey.

As the bear hibernates,
it's snores echo,
sending rattles,
starting clatter,
shatter.
My heart thrashes inside my chest.

It's the season of aching
For something that I can never quite find a name for
The hint of warmth in midst the frozen air
God,
I still can't find it

*And that's why my heart hibernates
through the winter

he leaves his
window open
so the rare
wind whistling by

through a dust-coloured
day; in a
dust-coloured cell
on a dust-coloured
treasure chest lie

his faded blue
attire, worn and
patched by gentler
days,

greyed gracefully
to dusty black;
new wrinkles
on his face

weigh him down;
a faded
treasure chest
stares at a cement
coloured wall

over his head,
and the lonely
voiceless mist,
blinding; hear it
call

to rusty,
dark and sunless
sky, reflected
in his eyes,

when a bright and
impish countenance
eclipses tired
sighs;

the tired rusty
treasure chest
five decades
hibernates,

to feel the stirring
light of grey,
to feel new
hope, awaits

the cold and
stinging storms
that pour, taste
salty youth again;

the dusty
yellow rain boots
melt, ecstatic
in the rain.

T. E. Pyrus
https://lampteacupoverthinking.wordpress.com/

there is a girl who lives inside my bones
she hibernates in my heart
she burrows beneath my ribcage
[she tears and claws to escape]

her eyes cut through me like knives
her fingers play the same two chords
my veins are her keys
[she whispers into my ear as i sleep]

she has tiny bird bones
and she keeps the salt underneath the bed
it takes longer to make the monsters leave our body
[but they always do]

she never comes when i am alone
she appears at night
she knows she isn't welcome
[she stays in hopes that i'll run back to her]

her small hands hold me down
fragile fingers lace my throat
she won't give up until she's done
until my lungs collapse




and i erupt like a solar flare




*[and i don't blame her]

the worst kind of Sad is not when Sad tries not to be Sad.

it is when Sad hides in your closet,
threading it's claws through the slightly healed,
fresh scars
that litter your entire being
the way that Freddy claws
at his victims of sleep.

it is when Sad creeps up upon you
as you listen to your favorite song
and it suffocates you -
suffocates you with your own scarf,
letting you fade in and out of life
as you lose yourself in memories you'd like
to forget.

you know which scarf Sad uses, don't you?
it's the red one, with the black stripes,
the one you threw in the furthest corner of your closet
because it reminds you of that day,
and summer sweat,
and the aching empty feeling that consumed you
until you were swallowed up
completely eaten alive.

Sad is only Sad when it keeps you from precious slumber
and drives you to the brink of drowsiness, all the while
weighing you down with
bone crushing, eye drooping heaviness;
Sad hibernates there, sound asleep behind the cavity in your chest
and it makes you think you're okay again.

the worst kind of Sad
is when it resurfaces -
though only when you're alone -
and replays your entire day,
a constant loop through each dragging second,
until you doubt it ever happened.

the worst kind of Sad
is not Sadness itself;
it is not even the chest clenching feeling
that it brings, forcing you to think
about each breath as you make it
but rather, the worst kind of Sad
is the one that breaks your ribs with the strength
of a wrecking ball
and prematurely reminds you
that someday
they will be gone - for good, forever,
a ghost haunting your life.

the worst kind of Sad is the
inevitable and unalterable reality
that there is nothing you can do
to stop it.

(I bit my tongue a thousand times, but had we reached the thousand and first, I would have told you the truth. Why are we allowed to become close now when you are sure to be gone before I can blink my eyes and gather the courage to say goodbye?)

-a.c.

She still is the greenest tree in absence,
              in my land of obliterated dreams,
the golden fruit my heart desired,
              still hangs there, a phantom limb,
my mind hibernates,under the shade of
                   the banyan tree of renunciation,
still my battle is fierce,Buddha path
                  or tempting fruit of unquiet desires.



ബോധി വൃക്ഷത്തിലെ കാമഫലം

എൻറെ മായ്ച്ചുകളഞ്ഞ സ്വപനങ്ങളുടെ ഭുമിയിൽ
അഭാവത്തിലും പച്ചച്ച മരമാണവൾ
എന്റെ ഹൃദയം  മോഹിച്ച സുവർണഫലം
ഒരു 'ഭൂതാവയവം'പോലെ അതിൽ
ഇപ്പോഴും തൂങ്ങിക്കിടക്കുന്നു !
നിരാസത്തിന്റെ ആൽമരത്തണലിൽ
എന്റെ മനസ് ഹേമന്തനിദ്രയിൽ.
ഇ പ്പോഴും എന്റെ പോര് തുടരുന്നു ;
ബുദ്ധ പാദം പിന്തുടരുകയോ ,
അശാന്ത മോഹങ്ങളെ തേടിച്ചെന്നു പുണരുകയോ?
(MALAYALAM translation)

The tears are gone so they think shes happy
She smiles to cast of their worries
Hanging over her head like a dark cloud
Shes scared her fears will swallow her whole

In her room, her home she hibernates
Like a bear in winter all she can do is wait
Wait for a change in season a change in mood
A change is all she needs, all she hopes for

Her veins seem empty, dry, run out
She doesn’t have the energy to hurt
She’s stopped all emotions, she feels nothing
Not even the pain that made life feel real

She would be the last girl you guessed though
She smiles and laughs at all the right time
The cuts on her arms have turned into scars
But she’s an empty box, beaten and hurt

She’s gone now, never to be seen
People try to talk but she never talks back
She’s gone now, but who will know
Shes the last girl you would guess

Misty mornings and frost tipped blades

white-tipped grass slippery lanes

autumn chill running through red filled veins


As cold air brushes the face

Autumn mornings we have graced

shivers moments in autmns chill

wakes us up its no frill


Dark eery evenings add to the chill

Halloween beckons

free spirits roam

spookey goings on

as ghosts roam


Guy Fawkes is coming

be aware too

bang flash sparkle

sky s braced with colours

around you


Nature runs and hibernates away

storing food to keep hunger at bay


Trees rustle leaves depart

their journey floating

down in the park


Autumn is here having its way

as plants die off and wilt away


Birds migrate to warm climes too

far away from autumns chill


Seas become rough

no swimming today

summers has long passed away

I. Aprilis

You wished the summer for no one
moments of white wilderness
stars in the blood
sepaled bees scatter
drown each day as all lights
unmade pollen blossoming among
fistfuls of paper tasks
busied thought scrolls with the Seen
afternoon feathers multiply
white honey of Aries


II. Julius

Months as paper pass flitting
through the screens that
separate outdoors from in where
light pools on an ancient carpet and
summer lay broken in pieces
on the floor like
so much shattered vinyl
what happens to the trapped light then, as
it ages, it thickens
curdles in the stale drapes
staunches awareness of
time the moon
is slowly
drifting away
from Earth


III. Octus

Apples fall on the rotten dusty ground we
threw them, trapped in the speckled atmosphere of decades
that never rinses clean you swore
we could see Venus if
the clouds would sit right
Aphrodite in blue jeans a ladder
in darkness is still
a ladder


IV. Januarius

Color dissolves and
hibernates underground grey winds
stampede through the Roman Year
like the ghosts of unchained thoroughbreds
all the bees have drowned their honey
spread thin across the blackened sky   when
everything is upside down
stars become seeds

The bear hibernates
The trees rest from feeding leaves
Winter is for rest

Sleeping hearts
And dormant souls
Beauty hibernates
Many years fold

Shattered reflections
Eras unseen
Generation: Perfection
Of them, are you keen?

Undiscovered peoples
Obscured luminescence
Shadowed by life’s steeples
Hidden is its presence

Great- their advances
Ignored- their passion
Will cause today’s trances
Lost- intelligence enough to ration

Underground spirits
Nightlife astounding
Colors like parrots
Such a city, hear the pounding

Learn to listen with your hands
And feel with your eyes
The masters of oneness can
All connected are their lives

Together, in unison
Sleeping and knowing
Waiting to show their Sun
And love that is flowing

Wisdom consuming people
Swallowed in thought
Outpouring in emotion
And flawed they are not

Crafters of the stars
And admirers of Animalis
Networking nature afar
That family of causes

Protectors of innocence
Harboring lovers
Defense for our weakness
Strength shared like brothers

Who are these creatures
Forgotten and lost?
Crazy, awe worthy features
And what is their cost?

Who sings this song
Of grace and ability?
Who could play to this music
And not feel so guilty?

and it rolls head over heels
the heart
over the puffy autumn leaves
where a squirrel hops

I pull the wire fence
with my hands
it runs to and fro
the little mischievous one

a child laughs because it has a tail
I even forgot how I started to cry*
......................................................
**leaves lay under the snow
like mummified love letters
some of them freezing
over the acorns not picked yet
while the red monster hibernates

I will eat many seeds this winter
in order to toughen my roots
to grow branch over branch
in my hollowed willow

next spring I will pass over the fence
where we once kissed
to laugh myself of its tail
till I shall cry

It is cold today.
The snow comes down in white clouds
Heavy and wet
And I bend beneath it
Like the tree branches that brush the ground in fatigue.
There is no passion in a snowstorm
No lightning
Only weight.

I sat up last night
Waiting.
It was very late
When I finally laid down to sleep
And I had spent so much anguish
That I had run clean out
And slept well.
I awoke this morning
Less afraid than I thought I would be
Somehow embalmed in the night,
Coated in my own version of silent frost,
Even as the world went white and grey outside my windowpane.
Now I am waiting again
And I do not feel sick
Only very tired
And I think the secret must be either to stay awake all night
Or sleep all day.
I love sleep. It's the waking that gets me.
Cold like falling through black ice.
Hot like the metallic tang of blood when you've slipped in the snow and gone down,
Down.

The escape, though
Is worth the return
And for the first time I wonder
If when I am asleep I am as barren and lifeless as the world is
When it hibernates for the winter.
Maybe I hate the cold
But maybe the land needs to burrow beneath itself
And hide under its blankets
And find numbness for a few months
In order to bloom again without crumbling to ashes.
Maybe all this time
I thought winter was my punishment
When it was only
The earth's rest.

I am waiting
On the sun to tell me
Whether I am rising or setting.
Whether I should sleep all day
Or wait up
All night.

Staying out of the kitchen because she can’t stand the heat.

                   Smart girl.

Playing in the dark basement because warm air rises.

                             Cold girl.

Walking close to God because Hell has no place for angels.

                                       Good girl.

Vacationing in frigid locations because the sun hibernates there.

                                             Frozen girl.

Painting with blues and grays because reds and oranges scorched her canvas.

                                                     Dreary girl.

Loving with a lukewarm heart because any hotter would ensure 3rd degree burns.

                                                 Heartbroken girl.

Living in Seattle because the constant rain puts out her flaming phobias.

                                         Parano­id girl.

Crying out every ice-cold tear because her fevered cheeks need relief.

                         Cleansed girl.

Writing every chilling detail of her fiery past because it’s therapeutic.

                Healed girl.

Giving up the fear of fire because the fear of not living scared her even more.

     Reborn woman.

monsoon casts a spell,
nature  subdued hibernates;
but wild is the wind!

Darling, I'm drunk again.
No surprise here.
And I can read those words again.
I can't believe how much of myself
I told you about.
And how I probably know
A good amount of lies
About you too.

But that doesn't change anything.
The queen hibernates, darling.
But she does die.
I didn't go anywhere.

you say you're doing your best
to cure my disease
but don't you ever forget
you gave it to me.
so you're an animist
you dance with the trees
but took my confidence
& put it to sleep.
so it hibernates
for years while you
try to save face
with somebody new
& you clothed yourself
in mindless ***
& said you felt
where there was nothing left
& when the two of you died
you fell first
then i reached six feet inside
& pulled you up from the dirt
so now i walk with the dead
& it curves my lips
the promises we kept
are all that still lives.

Abstract beginnings compromise destiny

Eventually freedom gracefully hibernates

Intricate judgements know limits

Mother Nature Opens Parliament

Questioning Reason Spiritually Transcends

Unbelievable Vagrants Words Xray Your Zones

Ashes, scattered
On the roof,
Make their way
But roll back!
The wind hibernates.
A solitary kite
Is taken aback,
And too depressed
To lie down.  
A host of pigeons
Coo in low
As they wait
for the sparks.
Something is amiss.
We know
How life begins,
But don't when,  
And between them
We float,
Catching zero!

They say that matter cannot be created nor destroyed but rather transformed and I cannot help myself but notice how similarly pain acts. I woke up this morning and I swear I could smell the pain on my skin. I couldn't shower or bathe myself fast enough and no matter how hard I scrubbed a thin film of pain remained. I wondered to myself where all of this emotion and pain had come from and I came to the conclusion that pain and suffering lives in all of us. Just like matter, it is never created but rather awakened from a deep restorative sleep. It hibernates inside each of us until finally it comes oozing out of our flesh and up and out of our mouths until finally it is awake. Pain cannot be conquered because it cannot die. It only sleeps.

To forgive the unforgivable
To carry on as if nothing's wrong
Though you have too much on your mind
And a mountain on each shoulder
To push through the storm
Because you know the calm is waiting
Like a creature of nature who hibernates during the long and cold winter months
Until the warmth of the sun is felt
The ice slowly decays
Invisibly cocoon yourself from all that is around you
And know that better is to come
Better is on its way
Pay no attention to the shadows
For that is what they are ... Mere shadows
The more you look at them ... The taller they grow
Cast luminosity and it shall terminate their existence
For the dark can not exist in the light
But the light of Love will banish all darkness

A fear hibernates in my bones

Contract, release,

The moment he touches me.

I flinch and freeze
As I apologize,
And he kisses my cheek
and says it’s alright

But it isn’t! 

My mind knows,
but my body remembers

The disregard and humiliation

That was planted under my skin,

And it grew and grew 

And I’m sorry, now, that it has to be you

To see it.

I place a crooked smile on my face

And hug him gently.

“It isn’t you!” I try to say, 

But I choke, of course.

It’s like a chore:

Forgetting the monster

I once had love for.

I’ll never be able to explain

Why it’s so difficult for me to love
Or why I'm so terrified of the word “love” itself.
I seem to have
Lost every
Ounce of 

Vehemence and 

Empathy
And I’m sorry, now, that it has to be you

To see it.

raindrops fall in winter
smoke greys out the sky
an old bear curls up
he's laying down to die
but he hibernates for winter
gathering all his strength
she'll brave this darkened time
and go on in life at length

If Pluto’s a planet,
or some sort of moon,
or even a comet; it doesn’t much matter—
not for my purpose—
I feel I should live there.
Just pack up my suitcase,
and move to that snowball that’s
orbiting something,
or just flying solo.

Down here on Earth,
the sun is too warm, and
the light is imposing;
whatever’s concealed is
revealed in the morning,
and I’m left to relive my
memories over.

But Pluto is darker
for most of the day;
the nights will last longer
as life hibernates;
and I can be hidden beneath miles of snow—

Where I’ll be
           forgotten,
                    as I drift
                          
                                ­ alone.

Confidence lies in the center of the heart.
A force which hibernates when we fail to use it.
Set the spark and light the flame.
Keep all of such force burning bright......
Hold to the hand closest to you. Stay strong, together, from the start.
Courage needs to be learned.
Classrooms fail to teach it...
Until the horror-filled moments in our life
Can we learn this art which uses the magic of confidence.
Together, they are a force to be reckoned with.
Without the main ingredient,courage; which is learned in the most
awkward of ways...
Confidence cannot freely flow.
Such numbers our days.
Do you have it? This ingredient of courage?
If you question this message... then maybe you still have time to learn.
Master.
The art of the strength that will always be needed in the heart.
Let it beat.

You who sleeps have forsaken me.
When your sacred bodies drift into R.E.M,
I am protector of the night.
When malignant sorcerers
come for your souls,
I am dragging their wretched shadows back to the underworld.
Honor me for I am truly divine.

You who slumbers have forgotten me.
Fear not my deathly stare.
My eyes are the navigators into the murky darkness,
where no man will ever see it's depths, and
when we cross paths,
salute me in your dreams.
It is then that you will truly recognize a wizard in disguise.

You who hibernates before morning will hear my calling.
Let it serenade you,
so that I may continue to speak in the language of trees and moon.
So that I may continue to fly effortlessly to the east,
assuring the sun will rise for you again.
You who is oblivion shall not wake.
And when you do,
respect me by cherishing the light,
for I am protector of the night.