A Silly Man

I have fallen

into alone.

I’ve lost myself

completely.

For her thoughts

that flutter through my mind

like many birds together

pulling me in different directions.

They all wish to chase my love

and find what she has made me.

What has she made me?

The birds stop in mid flight at my question.

Their uniformity startles.

As they begin to sing.

“Come see the silly man in love.

He thinks that she has made him.”

Can you hear the birds?

They’re laughing at me.

I’ve lost myself

in the wind of times gone by.

All I have are memories.

I’d truly treasure them,

if they were not killing me.

Strangled by the pain of longing,

I’ve swallowed the smoldering.

Someone please find my breath.

Someone help me breath.

She is my breath.

I miss breathing.

Not knowing her is death.

Not having her,

my misery.

Not being with her,

my test.

Can you hear the birds?

They are laughing at me.

“Come see the silly man in love.

He thinks that she has made him.”

Threading the Needle

I look to find a way to fit

through the eye of a needle.

Coming out the other side frayed

by the absence of what I was,

I shatter into tiny pieces.

Broken thoughts of who

scattered into the universe like star dust.

Some of us begin speaking and questioning.

Who are we?  What are we here for?

Some of us create things, others destroy things.

She wants to be his play thing.

He wants to play with her.

He extends himself stiffly

to her tender yearnings,

they become music.

New thoughts are born

to ride the thoughts of yesterday again.

Old thoughts begin to fade

into thoughts of tomorrow.

Expanding; contracting and repeating.

Broken thoughts of who

scattered into the universe like star dust.

Some of us begin speaking and questioning.

Who are we?  What are we here for?

Some of us create things, others destroy things.

One becomes many

and many become one

as one remembers she is

all and none.

I reverse myself through the eye of the needle.

I return to the absence of questions and I.

Having no need to reference to a self,

I rest in a peace greater than any joy or pain.

Yet, more subtle than these words,

I vanish now between them.

Viento

She is brilliance; striking out; lightning forms

beyond the mumbles of a world of men.

Her thunderous words awaken the warmth

within me, I’d forgotten. Asking, when?

Until I see the fairy, carve herself

out of the wind with her wisdom again.

There will be no rest for my pen or self.

Her magic awakens and leaves me slain.

Heaven cries when she sparkles in the wind.

“Leave the umbrella and bathe in beauty.”

She is wisdom; self defined; in the wind.

To crave her and serve her is man’s duty.

I will roam through endless pages and nights

crying out, squeezing my pen, for your light.