In Time of War

I went wordless, to the will of ends
From you, never to disclose again my pain
It’s effortless to be strong, now
Spring has parceled sunburnt
My future self, effortless
I will go now, never to think
On you again, Good-bye
Word bouncing down my own street
These are inside of me, Times of war
And I am firm and I will pillage
The world, there is little doubt
I’ve dried my stream, and painted silver
Against the opaque skies, not for you
But for me, it seemed no time for love
When in the hands of angry fate.

Final Harvest

‘Tis not that Dying hurts us so
Love is dying in a different way
Being let go, like yesterday’s memory

By someone we still love –
‘Tis living, the ambush of little hurts
That aren’t so shrill if we make

Bliss, our mortal baseline
And bow to everything, and learn
‘Tis not that dreams pass too slow

It’s that we have a set number of choices
We can ever make, hitting Reset
Is not the same as an involuntary rebirth

‘Tis not that Dying hurts us much
Life is not the mourning attachment it once was
When our heart is broken forever, by one final episode
That allows us to live another way.

To Confide with Happiness

Like the marvellous thing we were
A shawl of every colour of the spectrum
There was a perfect order

In our rising constellations
Call it love, call it what you will
A boardwalk to a happier universe

Your intrigue, makes me understand
Your wonder, lights me on fire
We are masters of eloquence

Circling water, glistening on pages
Heads in hands, laughing into the delta
Of everything, dressed for journeys

Like the marvellous thing we are
A casual climax of humility and inventory
Of the coat of paint turned by new beginnings

It is with a feeling of delight that I realize
We are incredibly wet in our shared bubbles
Happy in the first full moon of month X

There is only one way to complete the puzzle
To spend more time with you
Serenade each other with mutual shared silences.

Uninterrupted Poetry

These poems are lost to me
Like the dead, there is no returning again
To what was, old loves

My mind feels them shouting there
Those who have died to us
Once here, now gone

It is the same with the music of the night
Grief dies to my renewal
I regenerate my lips, my ears, my thirst

Like a mausoleum of longing
I am, without ever being satisfied
I wake up to radiant mornings

Each and every day, jasmine at my feet
And I write poems, like lost waterfalls
Missed sunrises, broken comets

Stars on the tips of forgotten inheritance
These poems are lost to me
Like the emptying fulfillment of breath

Like a kind of solution to what I am
I create a rhetoric of distinguished ambiguity
Legislating my soul to be free

An embroidery without worldly cares
These poems are lost to me
I am not a thief of possession

But rather, a common beggar
With the guarantee of unearthly words.

Under the Hands of Art

This rapture of the colors shivering
Strikes at the heart of my instinct
I secretly want to join

The future without consequence
To flood forward with the whims
Of imaginations not born yet

To strive, astonished and irreversible
Cutting all sense of abandonment
With the infantile revolt

Of seeking the last freedom
The hidden God within the eye-of-youth
Like a revolution of pure enthusiasm

I secretly want to join
The optimistic hoards of perfect melodies
A specter of notes, proverbs of lost moons

I give myself to quantum fragments
On a green canvas I plant my hunger
As an illusion, that no longer wishes to exist.