This is the place
The thing I came for:
A moment of the pause of poetry
Where life melts into meaning
Barely objective, the subjective-myth
The tentative haunter of my spirit
Who circles me silently in the night
While I sleep, the eyes
From which I shall return


This is the place
The cowardice of courage
A half-destroyed instrument of soul-sense
A freedom in failure
I came to explore the wreck
Of the human condition
To taste things for myself
Slowly along the flanks of hidden treasures


It pumps my blood with power and chi
The kind of oxygen charged with blue light
That sends the author in me some hope
That I may write questions worth asking
I have to learn alone
I have a lot of work to do.

Poetry Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Just-a-perfect-day-292908195



The world has her distances I cannot pursue
Across fields of summer nights
Spent alone, alone in the crowds
Lines on her face so grievous
The world is half-shamed always
In her unhurried humiliation of routines

Trapped in the roles of her fate
The world has discovered a new
Dissatisfaction, meanwhile we satire
The rhetoric of falling afternoon
We think we’ve seen it all, though maybe

The world was to us just one view of a face
A billion faces in the crowds
Exchanging nods with colleagues
Aware that nobody is watching after all
As unselfconscious as a line of trees
Duty was the last giving of our heart.