Rain gathers during dawn-moments.
Suspending dew drops
against webs of time;
only to dissipate
into a thirsty ground –
bubbling to the surface,
requesting
just one last drink;
one more thread
in which parched skin
is drowned by rain.

This forsaken road
spins it’s own tunes;
in familiar notes formed by
tires touching frame.

It’s been traveled before -
ruts gently formed to tell
of a yesteryear coloured
in hues somewhat unlike
the dull grays and blacks
divided by yellow lines.

For I passed a memorial;
amidst my travels -
marking a decline
in the path somewhere.

It was blurred, in passing,
the way it should be, really.
Shaded by gently moving
evergreens who spread their
leafy branches as a canopy.

It has passed, the tires hum,
autumn-like,
another road - to another
tourist.

It was a quick decent,
in retrospect -
a brilliant flash
that lit the sky
in all it’s beauty –
and then the fall;
like a cruel close
ending in our
crash and burn.

Words rise as steam,
cold condensation really;
If only to form
against the roof of my mouth,
though wanting to press
themselves into existence.

But, some words
are better left unsaid –
you know that -
fading into those black holes
that never see the light.

My tongue has turned
to water – and
I am a weak master
that keeps it there.

Once clear waters
swirl angrily
in protest against change –
as if their choppy waves
can prevent the passing
of past moments
that are fading now
into nothing more
than distant memories.

Knots have formed
at half angles
where none existed
in previous visits.
In all the awkward
places, really.
Joining thread to
broken thread, and
becoming dishelved
pieces fused together -
so impossible to break.

For they are words,
exhaled at chest level –
and sentences so desperate
to be spoken.
But they remain bound,
after all, that is what knots
do best.

Never seek to possess
what most you love'
for in possession
the object of desire grows stale,
which, unattainable,
grew sweet day by day -
untouched, unsoiled, unworn'
a scented bloom upon an ageless tree.
Daily reborn'
daily reclad in infinate delight'
food for your dreams;
urge for your toil;
what man can wholly take
his eager hands will spoil.

Yet, should he force the treasure,
brief ecstasy
more worth than daily measure
to him may be,
tastes differ, I have set
bright in my room,
poppies adn mignonette,
wild apple-bloom,
blue phlox and columbine,
fair violet;
pleasant their company,
short-lived their memory.

My heart's white rose,
lifting her virgin face
still in my garden grows.

It’s on nights like these,
when the lights flicker
and fade – creating
pools of haze against
a midnight sky,
that I remember.
For dew once
rose here,
beneath this
now still form.
It was when your eyes
became dark orbs
pooling beneath
starlit spaces, only to
rise and fall again.
Just like your breath
when you laughed.

When distance strikes,
at it’s most opportune
moments,
I scrabble to regain
lost footing –
and recover the space
that fast disappears
in your wake.

After all,
new life emerges
from ground
once conquered –
and separate paths
are formed
by the cutting
of entangled
strings.

We exist, almost.
as if afraid
to truly fill our lungs
with the sweet air
that filters through
these moments –
when we meet
bone to raw metal.
Only to retreat quickly
when fragile skin
brushes against
slivers of
old glass –
For some wounds
never heal.
We've learned that
crystal shards
cut deep
when one
least expects
their existence.

It’s become old photographs
and sand between my toes.
For that’s all left
in existence now –
a tribute to past,
Memories entangled
in all the smooth places;
where life meets breath
for brief moments
if only to separate
and return to stone
as if their origin
doesn’t remain.
It’s fragile now,
for your photograph has
cracked and fades
and the sand becomes
a blister against your heel.

You have become the dreamer
and I your dream.
For you have brought
me to life
in almost moments
where the sun ceases to exist.
As if half-thoughts and
not quite existent states
can create a real world
untouched by reality.

I know this, for I’ve created
the same dream in almost moments.

You asked for this,
not in words so much
but in silent requests –
as sharp demands unannounced.

I can see the questions
fooding your mind, for
they appear in your eyes,
when you think I don’t notice
you watching me.

For It’s been 14 weeks since I left,
and everything has changed,
yet nothing has, really.
It’s become all about circles
we’ve redefined them at the oddest moments.

After all so much rides
just beneath the surface –
hidden to common eyes;
yet pulsating with life nonetheless.

And what can I say,
there are promises that can’t be made
or kept really.
for fate has it’s own definition
and I am not it’s creator.

It is admidst thorns
that the rose
blooms most brilliant -
and in chidlbirth
that new life is given.

It was in the
Gulf's aftermath
that we counted
our losses -
carefully calculating
the height and breath
of it all.

For long nights
seldom fade without
reaping a harvest -
and well fought battles
cannot pass empty handed.

There is a cost
for such moments -
a memory, forever ingrained.

Nothing is ever final -
though we try to bury
the past in all it's brillance.
It will come to haunt us,
at all the awkard moments
where ingrained patterns
rise to this surface
of present time.

It arrives, unexpected now
for it creates rough surfaces
and alters once smooth paths.

It will pass,
like the dew beneath
this bright sun.
Moments once the
core of our very being
will fade;
Only to become
distant memories now.