Just listen to the cascading droplets,
like an act-raising prophet's concoction,
predicting mental whisperings so captivating to imagine.
To cease is to impede upon the planet's axis, maybe
to last is to fail first and strike the wrong nails.
It's like were all sails on this ship of biting wind,
and quite the strong... Hail?!
Hail the Lord if this storm is meant to be born,
and these waters the dark leviathan, no enemy more violent.
These crashing waves turn the night into a murder's knife,
slicing thin our space's fabric, horizon so passively placed...

In this letter,
in this mark of the maker, my heart to the paper,
I see distance better. As dark as the pain turns,
I charge; to keep my harp in the major, I'm starved.
We martyred a savior for harm to the greater, we're armed!
Of course it gets worse, but does it mean we know?
Flow? What about the energy that leaves the soul
when death approaches, when life suspends its motion
and time is just a memory that gleams with Hope?

Yes.
I rhyme in schemes and obscurity, but
I assure you when I'm speaking as hurridly, you see the maturity,
then breathe the absurdity. Like
something other than my self is seeking the words to speak;
and meaning? Insert the beat!
To understand the truth is a triumph, the rhymes just
feed me the certainty, keep me with purpose,
each, day is the same approach, the same revolt
everyday we hope, to live another, faith exposed,
then we're forced to write a piece of poetry to explain it?
Woah.
When a force of life is removed from the circle of birth,
a member of the family that raised you,
with every moment of worry and hurt, it's a return to the Earth,
that made you, a permanent birth, sustains you.
The poet finds the current, beneath the surface,
the crux of the abstract that feeds the circuits...

or perhaps a heart beats.

And we invite you in, our paradise these currents,
nowhere is life perfect with purpose,
no fair if life purposely furnished death, but we heard your breath.
We search your breast for safety, yet the curtains rest
no stage fright, no reason for flight, retreat from the fight?

It was quite the evening. The sun shined completely,
until the moon replaced its majesty with baffling illumination.
Lightly breathing, the piano played so magically, "just tap the keys."
No truer way does one find a silent peace;
a rhapsody elucidating a muse-created fine retreat,
a mood of patience the prime release. An ambient nature,
if the intentions were to please then God has answered the prayer.

But we clutch on that madness, we trust in the madness,
and if that madness is loss of life, then love is just tragic.
A twisted game, set up for disaster; to live this way,
is but a distraction, from the hustle and bustle,
same old, different day,
so simple to see it coming and yet it comes and we get flicked away.
In this letter, I stop theatrics, and drama,
I keep philosophy alive but not as a reaction to nonsense.
The comma is the mark of the maker,
where passion is lost: evolved, where heart isn't wavered,
we pause, but never stop until we lift the pen
at the end, the last word, the last letter is crossed.

You are, not the distant roaming glacial golem!
You are, not the sickened roses from Blakean poems!
But we, strive as innocently alive, unless you
possess the same scythe that reaped our Titan's vessel.

And we awake again, unless that day was our day, and until then
who really knows?

"We set sail on the ship of life,
toward the ice berg."



"When I am dead, I hope it is said,
'His sins were scarlet, but his books were read'." (Hilaire Belloc)