mother scrubbed minds
gleaming halos of godshine
seen by no one
but fellow travelers
on the path of sheepy knee walk
grinning at the alter of a butcher,
giving thanks
for their divine lobotomies

strands of ideals
glisten ridden
upon the shoals
the hidden
tides
fishing

complimentary and pure

dipped in crescent notions
full of crespula reaching
bathed luxuriant and bare

a millenium breadth
spray fed and touched
an evening aura

worn in depths
smooth swept

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

when I pour out my thoughts
into that cup in front of you
I expect for you
to take every signal
I've decanted there

Take it sip after sip,
inhale its essence,
feel its bitterness
or sweetness,
appreciate the presence
of any additional scents,

Then tell me,please
how do you like it,
is it your cup of tea?

I have been watching

as the tendrils of life

drift off and away

casting shadows

on her soul

in a waning light

I felt the touch of faith

nails indented my knees

and palms, now laying down

I feel my heart shift

into a peaceful stillness

slowly it started

sliding in a sepia light

I now held her hand

tracing the infinity symbol

into her palm

now we silently wait

as death dances in the shadows

She stared her in the eyes
Not backing down
All the attemps before
Failed
Not this time
Of this she was sure
With an akimbo Stance
She made her stand

"Here we are again
Doing the same dance
The same song
All my life
Doing nothing but holding me back
Keeping me from success
And I
I've always been finding excuses
Any reason
To keep the blame from you
But I can't go on
Not like this
Not anymore
Not if I can help it

Falling to the earth
The ground caught me
I absorbed the sun rise
Inhaled cool fog
Felt dawn on my skin
Leafs blow from messy hair
Morning dew tingling on my feet
Wind becoming a sweet song
Blowing through the trees
Birds soaring overhead
My eyes so open
I found new beauty
Stretching my wings in sunlight
Nature whirling around me
Clouds so inthralling
I catch wind
Feathers flutter
Like hundreds of butterfly's
I make stride
Take air
Flying into cyrulian

Stoplight flashing in the dark.
Heartbeat of a sleeping town.
Red and yellow flashes reaching
into the darkness.
They bounce off storefront glass in all directions.
And the people dream on.
With the dawn resuscitation of
the citizens reflected in a now
tricolor cycling.
The nightly ritual of countless little hamlets
once more complete.

Why is it they had to leave
so long before their times
leaving folks like us to grieve
and write our second class poor rhymes?

Their ghosts still dwell within my head
in their writing and their song
maybe they're not really dead
while we still read or sing along.

Poe who led such troubled life,
who still resounds just like before,
whose poems cut like pendelum's knife.
When shall he write now? Nevermore

Fighting the urge
So magnetic your pull
You always find me
Filled with your essence
I fall to my bed

Dreams erupe in vibrant color
Until it fades to black
Absent am I
Nothingness ignites
Burning away memory
As ashes quietly settle
And the pain has reseated

Eyes wide open
Day light streaming through like liquid gold
Dust sparkling between shadow
After the daze
And floating thought
I inhale sweet air
With lightness I rise

Another hopeless night
Reborn in pure morning