once inside we hide behind
the cross currents of sleep,
and the mind's dreams shift
into quiet disclosures...
around the circle,
lines are drawn,
our imaginations,
carved from our thoughts
by felt tip markers,
drifts and sifts through
our daily rubble,
recomposing...
like acts of a play;
we build walls of confusion
to prevent the intrusion
of reality and the reshaped
tomorrows it creates...
silent rings of the bell
harmonize in our consciousness,
pairs move through the evening
as I remain alone and
rejection lays in my pocket
like all my unspent change.
Circles and Colors
inside the window glass
prism walls an eyepiece,
stalks the hunter overcome by choice,
outside observed from our illusion,
an interpretation carefully
and forever forming
constantly shrinking circles;
our choices bent like refracted light,
colors of the rainbow seen,
sometimes clearly or not,
fooled by our patience... or not,
by our own choice to be,
we become seeking shelter
from inside the window glass.
Love Lost
like the gas in a helium balloon
our anger releases slowly,
allows us to perpetuate,
to continue our secure routine;
our lives follow an up and down path,
our highs... gradually at first... but,
now securely overcome by our lows;
depression seeks us out with every
point of difficulty a struggle,
you against me...
my point against yours...
who goes first?
who gives in?
only the bed chamber shares our needs
a dependence of one,
independence for the other,
our love lost,
our friendship buried in disagreement ,
we continue to remain out of
mutual disgust and contempt,
like our parents...
bonds once sealed remain forever.
Opposite Sides
written down in the mind's library of memories,
recorded for postponed use when violence is
transcribed into a bath of verbal, angry comments,
we search the racks for for truths in some
half bait illusive fashion
more for our own wandering sanity than
for resolution as if de-involvement was
the only label we needed to read;
on opposing sides of the line we stand entrenched,
words flow from the same volume,
each new editing receives a copyright,
and the fees are recorded in our ledgers;
voluntarily, our involuntary responses become habit
forming patterns and reflexes each with it own
set of rules... avoiding what we appear to want.
Tomorrow's Plans
like a snowball moving downhill,
our lives accelerate each new wrinkle,
grey hair and aching muscle,
each new pound... loss of memory,
and out-of-breath movement we take;
we plan tomorrow for changes
for resolutions and to make better failures, yet
all our tomorrows become today's promises.
An Afternoon Sun
a casual trail
winds its lingering
path down under
the bridge,
under the sunlight
off the hill,
past the tree broker
and the parlor where
an afternoon sun warms,
and our thoughts
forever remain imprisoned
behind our eyes,
inside our minds down deep,
hidden away in a dark pit
like childhood dreams formed
our personalities.
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