Of The Living Things

Strength used to live in this body.

A physical force,

An emotional solidarity,

A dedicated mind.

But these cold winter days

Bring a frailness to all

Of the living things,

And where once there was strength,

Only hope remains,

That the strength shall return

With the Spring.



There is a beauty in this moment.

I can feel it, like the wind

On my face, in my hair.

It’s subtle, easily overlooked,

And will be gone too soon.

There’s always a nostalgia,

A yearning to return

Once more to that beauty.

But it exists. And that

Is enough

For me.


Sometimes, I listen to music,

That makes me feel destined for great things.

Sometimes, I look at the sunset,

And wonder what tomorrow will bring.

Sometimes, I feel the wind on my skin,

Like a gentle push towards fate.

Sometimes, I stop, and I cry,

Because you’ve made life so beautiful.

You are my destiny, my chosen one,

You are my tomorrow and every day after,

You are the happiest of fates.

We are bound by Love,

Bonded through memory,

And, sometimes, all you need

Is some time

To live happily ever after.

The Midnight Train

If there was ever a time to sleep,

It is now.

Darkness, silence, a black bliss awaits me,

Yet they are elusive,

And why?

A question and a contemplation,

Trains of thought with no end.

A horn blows, the tracks vibrate,

And a red hot fire in this engine

Lights up an otherwise peaceful night.

The machine must go,

The cars must travel.

The whistle says nothing of the destination,

But they must move.

I wish I were their engineer,

To have some semblance of control.

But most nights I find myself at a crossing,

Waiting for the train to pass.

Praying the caboose comes soon,

And with it a dimming of these flashing lights,

A silencing of the insistent bells,

The return of calmness on these mental tracks,

So once more I might enjoy the night

And sleep.

A Plea

“I can’t breathe,”

She said. Or, at least, tried to say.

I wish I was more distraught,

But I can’t bring myself to be.

They’re words, which elicit feelings,

A plea to elicit an action;

Sentiment with a morbid gravitas.

And I,

A quickly dimming light

At the end of a tunnel,

Hold her this way

Not knowing what I can do.

“Forgive me, I love you,”

I whispered, or at least tried to whisper.

For the dead have deaf ears,

And even the sincerest sentiments

Are lost in the silence.

A Novel Disease

Cliche: Reading a bad book

Is like a bad relationship.

At the end,

You feel like you’ve poorly invested

And wasted time.
Each book, a contagion. Spreading

And affecting each person differently.

You say, “Don’t you see the symbolism?

Isn’t it fantastic?” And I do see.

But the sentiment is lackluster

And the conviction needs tempering.
A sincere sensation

Turns to a monochromatic abyss.
But how would you know

Without the first read?
Still, I wonder,

Not what book would I love to enjoy last,

But, instead, what book

Would I die without reading?


I’ve ceased smoking regularly.

I don’t feel the urge to anymore,

Except on certain occasions

When a mood strikes my fancy

Like how sulfur strikes a match.
I’m still anxious though.

I bite my nails until they’re gone

And then I gnaw my fingers.

As long as my mouth is fixated,

My nerves don’t seem so broken down.
I’ll surely die of a heart attack.

If I’ve quit too late: cancer.

Regardless, my chest constantly hurts

And I keep looking to the sky,

Wondering how many clouds I made.