Full Circle

To tread upon waking dreams is a perilous profession,

will any dare to trace the silver streams of slumber?

Be inxoticated into tettering terribly out of reach

from friends fancying a sober sincerity from you, yet

you go on in this simple solitude swerving away from comfort.

You are bothered by the lure of logical lullabys

and wish wastefully on fretful fantasies.

You've become tired too young to count 

quickly you fade into the patterns placed in this peom

knowing that it means nothing, never knowing it was created from nothing

and from the nothing it was bread and born, it will be again.

An act of kindness.

On a grey afternoon, I sat upon the steps of the museum just to peer into the green horizons of central park. Drop by drop, the inhabitants of these stone levels scattered distantly for the nearest shelter. I remained in the same place welcoming the beginnings of a soft downpour. The calm of feeling rain as it forms washed away doubt and stress. Yet, now before me came a storm in the form of a woman. She was in my eyes, a budding rose whose beauty is hidden through the shackles of consequence. She blushes under the touching rain, embarrassed for not having means to shield herself. My chest thunders in just witnessing the small intricate normalities of her and wanting to be a part of it. I mull over insane and pratcial possibility in the few seconds and feet she is away from me. I would like nothing more just to wrap my arms around her and keep her warm in an embrace, but I resign quickly form the idea. I get up and remove my arely touched coat, lay it over her and walk away as if I had never laid eyes on her for this was nothing more than a dream of a stranger.

Uncomposed

Push,pull, stretch and tear the inside. Somewhere between the lines, the beginning is lost from the end and I cannot comprehend these simple questions that lead me to some direction. Fated to never finish, agonized by the stalwart, stagnant phantoms of my past. Suffering in uncertainty has built a wounding prision around my heart. Rusted thorns of fabricated fears bleeds me dry in silence. In small moments on different soft faces I see the glimmer of escape within distant heartache. Even when the treasures of love is in my grasp, I remain alone in the sea of others. Maybe I haven't come across the single instance, tender action or woman who can destroy it with her grace. What do I know anyway, just a damn guy who thinks too much

Quick reflections

Born the morning, cold in the afternoon with despair in the evening. When did it become so strange just to think? I remember the mornings of children, of my own infantile eyes seeking out the msyteries beyond me reach. The days ahead were nothing more than endless surprises, harboring the inviting corners of possibility. Time passed a bit quickly and the truths of the world was slowly force fed into the a once eager cavity of wonderment. Cynical thoughts poisoned me in the guise of wisdom and knowledge. The afternoons of my teenage years held nothing more than the cold constituitions of fruitless love, reflections of a budding scoundrel and the decimation of a romantic's ideals. The foundations built on the angst of those years evolved into these evenings before the dusk of my life. Maybe in the comforts of the approaching end I can rest into a new dream of what like could of been. I wish this time, this place, my existence is a dream, a short dream to rise above from. It's just a thought from a rippled water's reflection.