Some are no more, others are distant

My life has become
A poem without a hero
As if, I am not the center of my life

I’ve observed the translation
Of experience to verse
Like somebody who doesn’t
Truly care where they may end up
My life has arrived quickly
At the end without an Epilogue

I become a secret chorus
Of my own mental instability
Without justification to survive
Or opportunity to love
I hear their voices and I remember

Solace, is my spoon of golden-milk
My life can become
A poem with other beloved characters
As if, I was living my life for others all along.

The Duty of the Poet


I will take thee, as a Poet
To candidature for ethereal thrill
Subtle as the inner champers
Portions of visions, phrasing that

Dwell as full as an image – the red Rose
I will transport thee, as a Poet
To Cathedrals of fraught mortality
Joys of darling spontaneity

To risk all for the Scarlet Shelf
And usher in liberty for arcs of white
I will love thee, as a Poet
Until the house is full, that of the dream –

As conquering as love’s palaces
As secure, as divine intercourse
I will lead thee, as a Poet
As a carpenter on hands & knees

With opened palms, known to nobody –
As a stranger speaking of the elder tongues
I will speak of summer fields
And unheralded flowers dropped from memory

As a juggler turned wordsmith
As a prayer turned literary
I will take thee in, as a Poet
As the original artist of creative Vermilion

The pressed dust of symbolic projection
Of minds painted with brief beauty
That warrants pricelessness, with every line
These bards never awake from midnight’s trance.