This

Interesting, this--
minor epiphany?
Who can tell . . .
me the ways of existence?
Not creed, no, not belief.
Just, this--

raW

The uniforms of great men
once amazed me, but what
of the clothes that
you and I must wear?

Of all the fleeting things we
endure . . . why this?
This thing so needless.

Yet, nothing is needless,
and everything is meaningless.
Death is our only respite
from this life-long torment.

How ignorant am I to
think the innocent deserve
not to die in tragedy?

This life is but a speck of eternity . . .
though as for the here, and
as for the now--
I can offer no direction.

In this place of great knowledge,
there is no such thing . . .
No compass points North.

Innocence must die to
fill the purse of another--
and we all must die, but
why not for purpose?

And what better purpose, but
to die -- and finally
have peace.

Poem (ca. 2008)

By declaring it
impossible to write
poetry.  It isn't.

Wednesday (ca. 2008)

A break from the week--
but not quite.

It's still just a normal day,
just in the middle.

From then on, it's downhill--
they say.  I disagree.

It's not really a hill--
the week.  It's just a week.

I don't like hills.

I Hope That Eternity is Finite

You can't force creativity.
You can't force anything,
and I know that pretty well.

These few brief moments
have such an immense impact,
and it defies my imagination.

I'll take this feeling,
and run with it
until I collapse.

Then I'll get up and realize
that you aren't worth my heart.

Give it time, though, and
I'll succumb to your peculiarities

once again, and again, and again.