Why is a dream but a vision
others wish me not to see?
Why do I feel plots hatching
as if I’m the farthest enemy?
Why must I sink
for you to rise?
A restless desire
for my demise.
This trial by fire
knows me in ways
you can never expect
and certainly don’t praise.

Once dark becomes my cloud,
and I travel in secret shroud
and count on inevitable
tearing of unlike souls,
accustomed to small measures
containing vast treasures
of fortunes only spoken of
in dreams,
only then will you perceive
what it is that I see.
Will you then find your heart
in resolve to preserve me?

Those Below

I stand here wondering
if life is a choice.
And I wonder what else is a choice.
I wonder why people behave
as if what they choose
is not a choice.
Why does a person practice a religion
that hurts others
as if it is not a choice?
Why does a person practice politics
that hurt others
as if it is not a choice?
Why do people look upon
a suicidal person
as if what they wish to do
as if the end of life they crave
is a choice?
Why is the end of our own lives
a choice
but not the end of others’ lives?
Why is hurting ourselves not right
but hurting others is right?
What makes us right?
What makes me wrong?

I stand here wondering
if life is a choice.
And I see a beetle cross my wood floor
not knowing where it is
not knowing which direction
it is headed
so it scuttles in any direction.
I bend to one knee
then descend to the other
and extend my hand
onto which the beetle hesitantly crawls.
I stand
and walk out the door
the dawn greeting me.
I step
down each gravelly step
to the ground floor
to the grass beside the walkway.
Lowering my hand to the damp grass
I allow the beetle to crawl excitedly
from my hand and onto the grass
where it feels more natural.
Walking back up the steps
I think of what I could have done
how I could have smashed it dead
rather than going out of my way
helping it
back to familiar ground.
Is life a choice?
What makes me so wrong?

Sleepless In…

Midnight rain drizzles
into puddles filling cracks in the pavement,
ripples dispersing lights reflected in them
as if colors are dancing in tribute
to the moon they will not see
until they tire and become still.

As déjà vu strikes another fiery soul
for a purpose no one knows,
not even the soul in repetition,
shut your eyes for fear of being blinded
by the scorching of dark
and tearing of sky’s fabric.

Remember what was said, for when
the same words must again be spoken
against the biting resistance,
these same words will be needed
but not as appreciated, as these same words
will have fallen from their meaning.

Is this the reason the shapes above
form and break and break and form
so to never be exact for too long?
Is this why the lights are thankful
their reflections are so effortlessly kept
so wildly unpredictable?

Perhaps normal would not be unwelcome
if the downpour was the sun,
or perhaps the sun has lost its meaning
in its quest to be far too reliable.
Truly, it is the unpredictable that is special
when it returns to grace us,

whenever this happens to be…

Angels Don’t Speak

I had a vision of where I come from
and in it I asked to see my soulmate
but what was shown to me
was only what I had already known

There they were, all of them
one in a striped shirt
another wearing a white garment
one’s silk dress playing with the wind
and others reflecting gleamed smiles
as they shared hugs and laughs
as joy and excited energy
permeated every cell of their souls
in their connection to each other

And there I was, a distance away
I could only observe and observe more
what was not within reach
what I could not obtain

I could only hope for indifference
to hold back a frown

And as I observed happiness from afar
a question begged my mouth to ask
“Why do I have to be here?”
but no answer came
so another question leapt from my lips
“Why can’t I be with them?”
but no answer came
and as I looked on longingly, I wondered
“Why am I alone?”

As the distant togetherness continued
I felt a hand slip inside my hand
as I felt an immense presence by my side
and the hand of an equal presence
then grasped my other hand
and their wings spread open all around
surrounding me not like feathers
but as flame, a shield
and I was encased in their magnificence
as a light surged from within me
rushing out in all directions
to fill their shield and expand it
beyond even their reach

And while I gazed once more
at the distant happiness
I could not and will likely never have
a thought struck that struck me cold:

Indifference is what I was missing
and what I was missing
is not what I needed

So as I held the hands of beings
that could not be seen or heard, only felt
upon my shoulders fell the touch of a third
as an enveloping light whisked us away

And I awoke from this vision
and though the three were not seen or heard
I could feel them with me
that is, until my mind faded in full
back to this similar reality

However, what I learned
remains still.


Home may be where the heart is,
but I have yet to find my heart.

And so I wander on and on
in a frozen circle,
not desiring fame or wealth
or the one-night stand
of any particular night
with a beauty broken enough
to want to submit to me –
I speak, of course, of the night.

I don’t crave all the wants I can get
or all the women I can want
or the power to forget
all the hurts I have brought
or remains of pain delivered to me,
for I am its home;
I am its heart, without a heart
of my own.

My one wish
is for a place
to rest my head.

Waiting Room

I’m too old
I look too young
I’m too depressed
A song already sung
I’m too unmotivated
I’m too sad
My better times
Are only a fad
I’m alone too much
I have too little
When I think
My thoughts are brittle
I speak too clearly
Say what’s on my mind
And people become
Much harder to find
I’m much too honest
Far too sincere
Which is far too scary
For others to hear
I give too much
And receive much less
But it’s all for the sake
Of trying my best
But my best is lacking
I come up too short
I judge myself often
On top of judgments of your sort
I’m too trapped
too regretful
too nice
too silent
too slow
too tolerant
too patient
too strange
too unfeeling
too separate
too shameless
too much like no one
of a comfortable range
I feel too much
Yet not enough
Every tease of happiness
Is merely a bluff
I’m too damaged
More and more battered
Too insignificant
To actually matter
I’m too specific with words
To have a place called “home”
So even in death
I’ll wait as I roam
I can’t enter into Heaven
I don’t righteous too well
And as I’m too good
I’m unwelcome in Hell

The Autumn They Share

The autumn leaf never fell for the wind,
for it falls every day.
Life has hardened it crisp and coarse
and easy to crumble,
but the wind sweeps it off its base
to carry it away
as autumn wind cradles the fragile leaf
to together tumble,
without care,
entwined in their fate,
kissing the autumn they share.