The ebb, the flow

a rip, a current.

Stark contrast living among deep unity.

If I could see the trees ache.

I  would anguish for them.

But, as is the forever case…I am too late.

Misery has arrived and there is no place to hide from it.

Sadness…laying there on the backs of all that has fallen.

Taunting me…

Playing with the idea that my help would do some good.

In the stillness of a chirping chorus…

the bleakness of human stampede…

In this earth, of this earth…

I would be mistaken to believe.

Believe I can hasten the bitter and sweet…


Burn After Writing


The smoldered remnants of what use to be

hold no fair for me.

No embellishment of the truth in the broken windows of youth.

Alas, only charred recordings melted to waned walls.

And, flammable fiends in wait down the hall.