I carried a debt deep within,
an unawareness of place and time,
a lingering doubt this place was mine
to rule and ravage as I found it
inappropriate: approximate 
like a half-rhyme sanctimoniously
split over two vaguely poetic lines.

I saw you going further: forcing 
a full rhyme at the cost of – of, of
the sacrificial crucifixion: named
forevermore the plurality of pens,
the chopping of a single glyph:
an enjambed word! 
a single silent s, to start a new line
to confuse and to contain 
a singleminded rule of rhyming. 

I carry a debt, one I never intend
to forget: you words dividing, 
searching for meaning of memories 
and migration: birds, beach or
the hill of Babylon;
I will never become another.

I am no poet; wordsmiths are a different kind  
of beings: alien to my pen of blue ink; of crumbling tapestries  
they weave and conjure blue skies from the terrors deep down 
where their unconcerned clouds no longer linger.

I am no poet; writers write their blue truths: 
blue moons and pink pigs crashing, crackling,
roasting to feed the alien men, and beating heart
of a Lady’s pen.

I am no poet; never saw his Skylark soaring in his sky;
never bought her beach bird’s obsession: food, food,
her Sandpiper’s ceaseless search for food, no pathos felt
for nature’s deep-rooted drive to survive.

I am no poet; I fake, I take His words 
mixed and unmatched with Hers,
to simmer slowly a tepid truth
served crumb-less, cold, meatless, untold – a bowl for fools.

How to measure a life, measure 
The time you have lived 
Instead of the time you have 
Been alive. 

How do you judge that life, judge
The success without comparison
To another’s, unbiased thoughts 
Signing the bottom line. 

How do you measure a life, 
A lifetime of time passing
Without waves shaping any rocks 
Or gravel left to others. 

How do you judge that life
Without scale and sense,
Without any signs of ever having
Been alive. 

A worried voice whispered, did you
Squirt; a worried voice whispered 
Did it hurt; two worried voices 
Embraced and exclaimed 
A single No: there were no leaks, no
Dreams shattered or sore stars 
Sailing far above. The cold embrace 
In the tenebrous tower, this story’s 
Proleptic irony, her farewell and Bon 
Voyage became a ballooning belly
Sparked by another’s life force,
Another’s life forced upon her. 
A worried voice whispers
Of mad… sad… moments of 
Memory recollection without 
Trigger and without purpose:
Mindful madness resting 
Among the Stars.

Empty Space

I can’t wait for Madness
To strike, for Her high
To arrive, to come and to
Embrace this vacant space
So long and so carefully
Composed.

I wait for Madness in every shape,
Shapeless whispers of Her faith
Like a doom bell keeps me awake
At night, at noon the death knell
Calls for everyone; I contemplate
My position: the bottom rhung
Reserved for the likes of me,
My kind abandoned and
Unappreciated in their world
Of forevermore Insanity.

I wait for Madness, Her mind
Like a space after a new
Line: invisible yet fulfilling a purpose
Opaque in most eyes, oblique in
Every mind. I wait – this vacant space
Becomes home – for another while.

Morning Dew

Morning dew and fog-less dream,
Curtains drawn, mind undrawn,
Dreams not yet undreamed;
A cold breeze on sticky skin,
A scream for more of same, of
Pain from another day –
Approaching;
Morning dew and steaming brew
Awaits the dreamer, the fool
Behind the veil of days of maybes
And lasting compassions;
Morning dew and fog-less dream
My signs that all is well, all is good –
For now.