...

nestled in the aftermath,
of that unholy union,
that culmination of dreams and reality,
this day takes another meaning,
imparts a new moral,

lost in translation,
between the mind and the word,
it's not happiness,
that this existence lacks,
it's hope,

refusing the pyre,
built on dreams,
fueled by ambition,
ignited by a chastising word,
or two,

there is no death,
at hope's end,
the end, however,
will covet death,
hopefully.

...

what does a goodbye mean?
when there is no love lost,

the stench of acrimony hangs heavy,
as a curtain,
failing to see what was once good,
once cherished.

what of those that never bid fare thee well?
with love lost,

the stench of acrimony still hangs heavy,
unable to let go,
unable to fathom,
happiness for you, them,

goodbye is a long word,
for a world so small,

we will,
meet again?,
across the curtain?,
or maybe not.

...

why?,
squeeze silence,
into meaning, (im)material,

silence has its own monument,
epitaphs,
of the dead.

...

this is where i refuse to be,
this place of glass half-full,
i’d rather be half-empty, with
possibility of peeking over the brim,
being swept away,

this is the place i loathe to be,
complacent in mediocrity,
happy in the average,
where risks mean loss, and
lost without challenges,

i want there,
that place of intense toil,
infinite struggles,
everyday misery,
defeat and anguish,

i want that place, of
forever hunger,
defeating odds, where
tomorrow may be what it is, but
it will be my best.

...

the elephant is its own beast,
you see the tail,
i, the trunk,
the task, however
remains daunting,
the middle ground?
may already have been trampled.

...

much as the dead carrying the dead,
clean of morals, to be dealt
anecdotes, to be shared
the shame, however,
lingers, enough,
necessitates,
the pyre,
of wayward hopes, and
lofty dreams,
a lesson in caution,
a moral in precaution,
happiness (lies) in mediocrity,
and hence,
the next pyre,
ignites.

...

this is how we die,
each day,
every day,
like the ardor that cooled,
over years,
without choice,
a little by force,

this is how we die,
a thousand deaths,
with each passing day,
when thoughts remain,
elsewhere,
any(no)where,
(but) in you.

...

vulnerable,
pretense,
angry,
guilt,
nonchalant,
hope,
some,
of the many.

...

that blaze?
set high,
by anger?,

body and hope,
scorched,
dead (?),

life remains,
(will hope reclaim?),
clinging forever,
like the undead dead.

...

this blinding haze,
f(o)ueled by the hopeful spark,
stifles nothing but itself,

dying embers, alas!
don’t stay dead,
‘t(h)is time,

‘t(h)is crumbling dyke,
douses embers,
stifles hope.

...

memories prevail,
despite the dying embers,
captured in pretension,
in this redolence,
of defunct phantasm.

...

these lies,
swathed, in
pretentious diminutives, and
belittling adjectives,
acknowledge,
the want-need-desire,
for 'nother beginning,
a new tomorrow, with
a warm smile, and
a grand finale.

...

this eve,
the preface,
to an end,
that never was,
a dozen years ago,

and an end,
to the beginning,
that will forever,
remain elusive.

there are no ends,
without,
beginnings, and
no (new) beginnings,
without an end.

...

breathe,
silently,
into darkness,
definite nothingness,

exhale,
slowly,
into tomorrow,
possible oblivion.

...

there are those that beg,
for more,
at the altar of time,
a few minutes there,
from that other day,
and then there are those,
that let time slip,
like sand through an hour glass,
un-tethered,
meaningless,
until it is past,

I beg now,
for those years past,
to have never been,
that reality,
always a dream,
so there is no me,
here,
begging for this dream,
someday reality,
not today,
but someday.

...

hair whipped around,
arms flailing,
clothes askew,
beauty unscathed,
at the end,
of the short walk,
from the edge,
to over.

...

those withering glances,
stark in essence,
obsolete in purpose,
mean nothing to this psyche,
nonexistent in emotions,
biding the end of time,

the damage is done,
the songbird drowned,
and yet,
(there is something to be said for patience)
we await the tenor (?),
of the fat lady.

...

like the ascending crescendo,
of an approaching train,
those leaves a-flutter,
in this indian breeze,
unseen clouds,
unknown depths,
endless thoughts,
endless thoughts,
now, but not
forever.

...

there is nothing to do,
but hope this errant cloud,
will find a peak to rain upon,

one cannot help but wonder,
in this life of valleys,
where those are to be found,

half glass full?
this cup runneth over,
with the drowning songbird.

...

the tolling bell,
lost in the cacophony,
of endless todays, and
seamless tomorrows,

lend me an ear,
a silent night, and
some time,
out of this mind.