August 2021
March 2023
The sky be held in arms of youthful souls
When hail breaks loose and shivers sting like fire.
In awe I gaze, an unforeseen snowstorm,
Of childhood past recalled moments retired.
May stress not seize, strangle, subdue my heart,
Instead propel thine dreams, be guiding me?
Those sleepless nights shed light, reflected shards
Of glass, broken windows, my eyes can’t see.
What pressure stand with I as to become
Of greatness if greatness not I they seek?
Of closed mind, they comply, give time, but hum
I shall, a melody not nearly bleak.
Be future plans past planned ensuring plight,
Unhaply breaks its hope unless I fight.
It took me a second to realize
Her presence that I felt was in a dream.
My worries stall and in dismay I oblige
To the cunningness memory teems.
I believed for a long time that my dreaming mind is vacant,
And still I do. But that which I recalled can’t have been.
My past and present are all I have to attest, however, so salient
Is the falsehood of memory, I now a slave to it.
Vividly, so vividly had I eluded her eyes,
In living memory and occasional fantasy.
But I need not let the thought replay like a lullaby,
Simply perfect and bijou, so easy to carry.
I must let it slip into my subconscious,
And with the present, remember to be cautious.
A missing piece he says,
That there is a missing piece
A cause-effect explanation was too 'neat'
Am I more cryptic than it seems?
The flare kindled in seconds
And is still alive, to my surprise
What a wonderful thing, to have such
an intensity of parity surviving
You read into me too deep at times
Better do you notice what gathered
dust in those shelves of files
To build a picture of mosaic and tile
There are details I’d rather omit
Parts of the story I continue to deal with
I’m “falling” into them, if you wish
to use such a word to describe it
Would telling you that I’ve fallen
in love suffice?
Or are you alluding to another fragment?
One that slipped passed my pastiche?
I’ve morphed to appease the
demands of a temporary circumstance
And do not know by what end I’ll morph back
Or if these changes will surface an aching of past