Twists and turns 

The saddest song,

comes from a broken heart.

A dream unseen, undone in parts.

But we have it, to hope again.

Travel your road diligently, my friend.

Where once was a snowy path,

there are blooms aplenty, roses to last.

A different game, the shadows play.

A different wind does sway.

But the traveler, the same.

And we have it, to hope, to gain.

It’s not the end, it’s not the end.

Strum a string, another for the day

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Leave behind a feather, fly away.

Strum a string, another for the day.

Sing sing sing, from the heart, where you are.

I can hear you, here, amongst the stars.

There’s one there, a mountain.

At the foothills of time.

You’ll find me waiting,

after your climb.

Go on, there’s no delay.

After all that’s come to dismay.

Drift off a feather, fly away.

And strum a string, another for the day.

the moment, now, isn’t for me 

To live on in time.

In the wind, amongst the trees.

The moment, now, isn’t for me.

To live on, whether broken.

In a half, or a token.

In words held, unspoken.

The moment, now, isn’t meant to be.

Life in motion

is of rare devotion.

Too quickly the days will melt.

And the memory past

will seldom last 

beyond words, unfelt.

There is a place,

beyond all trace

of repetitive motion, activity.

Where lingers the grace

of love, enlaced 

with the perfume of fidelity.  

When the darkness stands, moves to take

When left without sense.

When despair flows intense.

When love leads to ache.

To bend and break.

When the darkness stands, moves to take.

Take it all, in one sweep.

When duplicity lies deep.

Behind the shadows it sneaks.

Then there must be something of divinity.

When we can’t claim for infinity.

Glass of the most fragile, humanity.

To breathe, to live, to risk calamity.

Mind or matter, how easily it goes.

At the turn of the wind, at the intensity of the blow.

Perhaps we’re able to still.

The going of the body, the dying of the will.

To stitch the cut,

to replenish the spill.

But to heal the spirit, to undo the kill.

To fix the soul.

Tis the godliest of skills.

How is it done

They don’t fade easily.

Those worn memories.

Silent daggers,

piercing reverie.

Drops in the ocean 

of never meant to be. 

How is it done, by the world, the rest?

To treat them as strangers. 

They, that were once guests. 

In the most tempestuous of courts. 

The longing of mind,

the desire of hearts.

Be human

Guilty of being human.

Of falling and falling again.

Of rising only to the occasion.

Of dalliances with sin.

Expect from me not

reins of hold.

Purity of gold.

Check of imagination.

Statements bold.

I only want to feel.

The wind in my hair.

Laugh loud.

Walk bare.

To love freely.

To want deeply.

Unashamed.

Chain not what is there,

inside.

Fight not, 

 nor hide.

What false claims they say.

That this be the godly way.

What of that mercy.

To tighten strings bound.

To see only error.

To hear only the prayer sound.

The stallion rogue.

Of desire on hold.

Of life unchased.

That is divine placed.

Not chains. 

Lose, live not encased.

That’s not the lord.

It’s the people.

Filthy of soul.

Double of face.

To tell it like it is

There is nothing to be said,

if not the truth.

How it seethes when hindered.

Gnawing inward.

Sharp of claw and tooth.

Storm and thunder,

to ignorant ocean waves.

Tranquil sleep and slumber.

Wrapped in oblivious stays.

The demon that must be embraced.

The bitter drink with poison laced.

The truth that embitters.

Hurts in more ways than one.

Brings out from caves.

Into the sun.

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This is why I’m an insomniac

The night brings too much.
Emptiness, quiet, solitude.

Too much time for the mind to bend.
Too much time for imagination to move.

Too much time to think,
to let stand and soak.

Too much time for fears to sink.
Too much time to stoke.

Old embers of the dying sort.
The night brings their fiery retort.

Scenarios languidly crawl, mesh and mend.
Begin and end and begin again.

Unbridled visions of the open eyed sort.
Fiends and friends, games of an open court.

Moments shimmer.
Play and play again.

They entice and twist.
Their who what when.

Open eyes, dears and fears.
Haunting mysteries in closed.

Worry, fret at awake.
Baited dreams at repose.

Racing at the mind’s behest
the psyche lies at unrest.

Respite at dawn, after climbing mountains steep.

My night, it won’t let me sleep.