Tried and true, and tired too,
I thought of you.
The Wind and the Winter
all wrapped up in one.
Shades of grey
with glimmers of gold.
Lonely wisdom
and stories untold.
The Tropics have always pulled you North
and me, the other way.
And as you walk through the snow in wonder,
I swim in the seas of today.
I hope, still,
you keep your heart warm.
The North can be so cold,
and your grey was always best with your gold.

This passing is a blessing
but it breaks my heart just the same.
Your leaving into loving
just as you once, long ago came.

I can still feel your heartbeat
as I hold onto your icy hand.
Your pulse fading with each moment
as I try to understand.

But no book, nor beauty, nor brilliance
can explain the mysteries of death.
I have to learn to accept these things
with each passing breath.

The smell of your soul still lingers
in the air of this lonely room.
Your body now an empty vessel,
a filler for a tomb.

The flooding of these feelings
is drowning me in sorrow.
I remember all at once the yesterdays,
and wish for one more tomorrow.

But everything around me feels
like a dreamers design.
Like some vacuum to oblivion,
I must be losing my mind.

My heart is so swollen
by the sadness that I feel.
I can’t even separate my feelings
from what is and isn’t real.

And where you’ve gone and where you’re going.
I couldn’t get there too soon.
I just wish I could see you laugh once more
and light up like the moon.

All the love that surrounds me feels like
something I don’t deserve.
Like something you gave me once
that I never really earned.

And these words will never match or meet
what you’ve meant to me.
The only, sole constellation
is I know now you are free.

A star in the distance,
lighting the night with its way.
Showing me the path I must take
to be with you again someday.

New Songs

Follow the fabric straight through to the future,

feel the edges of each corner

sharing their stories of the past.

Pain expressed in frays.

Wisdom worn in tatters.

All to cover and keep warm.

A blessing cloaked as cloth.

You can’t quite truly commit suicide if you haven’t done anything yet.

Although I suppose if you don’t do anything for long enough

it becomes the best of reasons.

The secret to life in some strange way is to

live in a place of action,

somewhere between boredom and brilliance.

Where you neither have too much time

to ponder the past

or fear the future with an excess of thought.

Do what you will,

but do something.


Long and listening to your soft spoken dreams,

I see a river flow.

Blackened by the beauty of night and

curving around the corners of my mind.

It is with your words

a world is created,

beyond the beauty of our own existence.

Limitless in love,

and staring beyond the blindness of the sun.

When listening to you,

I dream.

And fall asleep

to wake up in my heart

and filled with a knowing

that this world desperately needs.

I will water this world with words.



We no longer dip our pens in

thick black ink,

we no longer set our table in the dark.

We are no longer left

with moments to ponder,

caught between creating or not.

Between boredom and beauty.

We are no longer held

captive or free,

but caught between

this nightmare and a fading dream.

We are all at once,

no longer living either.

We are no longer separate or alone.

And as we ascend the stair to our bedroom

the light in the dining room

is left on to show a lonely table

unmade and changing.

We are no longer lying to ourselves,

one of us is going away.



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