Coming home from war
I feel the weight above my chin.
I need some water.
Though I’ve forgotten how to swim.
I often wonder,
What the future has in store.
When does this horror end?
When will the healing begin?

No ones calling.
Now I’m buried alive.
And Every second is agony.
My body’s aching,
And I’m another day older…
I should just end it once and for all.

Smile like nothing’s wrong.
Hide behind those loving eyes.
I don’t know how much more obvious,
I can make this cry for help known.
But there’s no lighthouse to guide me home.

No one seems to notice,
Or seems to care at all..
Time goes by and the pain escalates
Then I’m another day older…

I’m sorry I couldn’t be strong
To keep going on.

The peak just vague in clouds, yet
fails to tame hikers' wild hearts.
On the fragment of petrifaction, I
saw my own beauty reflected.
Amidst the dusty wind, I
heard my inner voice echoed.

Footprints on shortcuts transform treads to tracks
“Hi!”
Golden gale tore the still moss
Yet shallowed the brown might
“Thank you!”
Stamps lull taken steps into gone
“Cheers!”
Sheer lines
“You’re close!”
Grey clouds settled on the peak
For no up-looking eyes to glance
“Hi!”
As if the small has always been the great.

On mountains edge sun shines grace,
without looking back a wild rabbit ran away.
Greetings connecting the towering mights
adorned the mountain with resounding sights
that transcended the “Hi!”s

Not upon

Men with cameras
Sit and wait for the sunsets
Poets see all day.

I'm sorry for the flowers
I didn't realize the burden of being so pretty
The timing and the effort
That such beauty could bring such pity

I'm sorry for the hours
You've spent wishing I was doing what I wasn't
The waiting that you've suffered
Hoping its bringing happiness when it doesn't

**** these dozen roses
A red reminder of my ineptitudes
The buzzing in the interludes
The red herring that I've served to you

**** these dozen roses
A celebration without serenity
Her mind without amenity
It isn't much but oh what it's meant to me

I'm sorry for the little things
I hope you can find a way to leave them where they lie
I'm sorry for the flowers
You don't have to do anything,
just leave them 'till they die.

The world is burning,
Matter dissolves —
Forms collapse —
the temples, the empires,
the names etched on marble.
Even the body,
faithful companion,
bends to the law of fading.
But what is form
but the shadow of becoming?
And yet,
essence remains —
not the monuments,
not the crowns,
but the invisible pulse
that binds us.
It survives the fire,
travels through the ashes,
and whispers:
“You are more than what perishes.
You are the song,
not the instrument.”

The cities fall into sparks,
the towers bow into ash,
and still the stars
scatter their infinite silence.
What is consumed here
is reborn elsewhere,
for the cosmos has no waste,
only transformation.

We are flames too,
brief torches of awareness
wandering through the night of time.
Our suffering is not the end,
but the beginning of vision.
Through the smoke of endings
we glimpse the open horizon—
where fire becomes light,
and light becomes love.

The world in flames
is not the world perishing,
but the world remembering
its eternal source.

Tomorrow the sun will rise again
Such is the inevitable march of time
Brief is our time here
Especially in this hurried digital age
Proof of our existence only buoyed by those who whom are true to us
                                                                ­          as we hold them the closest
Even despite the grand shadow of our own self perception
The life I've lived, being so full of irony of it's own sort
The greatest being that I could never convey to you,
                                                                ­          nor to the world
The great fortune I found when I met you
Even if I could proclaim to this unworthy world,
                                                                ­           who would take notice?
How, when most of us know so little of ourselves,

                             much less from a man they've never met
                                     from a place they've never heard of
                                           about a love they couldn't hope to dream of




For her name was Teresa

As humans, we are not made to understand this kind of beauty
that nature created.
And yet, without even trying,
I can see it in every part of your being.

I do not understand.
How can your beauty differ so much from the usual meaning of the word,
and yet be more surprising than any other kind known to man?

It is not a beauty that demands attention,
but one that simply exists —
and still, I find myself unable to look away.

It is the beauty of nature, as I have said before:
not false or ornamental,
nor grotesque or forced together.

I can’t help but compare it to a landscape.
No one is forced to look,
yet countless poems and books are written about it.
We are fascinated —
because it is natural, primordial.
A beauty we could never create,
and never truly possess.

I see it now — in your eyes, your lips,
the tilt of your head when you smile.
Like a view from the mountaintop,
looking down at the quiet forest,
or the sun sinking into the sea,
only to rise once more in the morning.

Your beauty belongs in the poems of the old Greeks.
How can someone be this beautiful,
and in such a simple way?

I may never understand.
But as I lie here a few feet away from you,
with the comforting knowledge that you do not even know my name,
I can’t help but smile,
and stay a little longer
to contemplate your beauty.

"Man, HE knows nothing of love."
Maybe, but woman, you're beautiful,
So why put me to blame?

She painted her nails:

her toes look like little gnomes --


with scarlet red hats.