Far from the forest, in the other jungle, restless she sways. The cookie cutter corners draw blood from her psyche. Relaxed, she is, in the omnipresenet life that thrives deep and rich. Her heart hides somewhere in a gore, but only cold stones and black pavement surround her now.

The Maker's words felt like colored glass in her palm. She knew they held something precious inside them. Some lingering thought, that she could almost just grasp, but not quite. It left her feeling inadequate, holding too few of the remaining puzzle pieces. But she knew deep inside, she hoped anyway, that it would all fit in the end. That it was all part of some grand plan.

Another night ends too soon. The sleeper ends up in his bed. The fighter throws beer. The lover's plans run a foul. The party that never was. If time was reverse, how right, it could all go right. Instead everyone leaves with distaste in their mouth. Maybe for the better. The poet makes no sense of the world in a drunken state. Good night.

Some nights she's melodramatic. Sometimes she gets carried away.
The warmth I feel when she's around me drowns those memories, so I stay. When distance moves between us, and my bed feels too cold, I look to dreams and hope to see her, an illusion of her, I hold. It kills me to forget her smile, her smell and her taste, the sweetest candy, that I could never waste. But time conquers all and memories are not excluded, and so her essences becomes diluted. When ever I return, from this rambling trip, I hope her power overcomes me, with a kiss on the lip.

No more hot flashes of unprovoked rage. No more depressions over girls (disgusted) expressions. The person to be is the person you are, and the persons to see aren't too far. Love comes in waves but your love always stays. The hormones subside for the rest of your days.

Finding meaning behind the words,
and the conversation plays on different levels. Emotions engage beneath the facsimile smiles. A mountain of history beneath the fresh cut grass. It shifts and moves with memories remembered, but never dare spoken clear. A hope that the understanding is still there, that friends will be friends. Forever. But the barriers make it too unclear. Time has broken the youthful spell, and who can tell if you should ever go back.

It's the quiet voice, that speaks up at night. A lone skiff in the tumultuous ocean. Drowned in the noise of day. Failingly heard, when the calming moon soothes the turblent tides away. It's message, a guiding beacon on the rocky cliffs. A lighthouse for the wrecked. Its' mousey whispers worth more then riches. But, only for those, that look to the stars, and hope guides their way.

She never felt dread, a fear of dying, until those roads seemed too small. The blurry poles and trees and houses had passed each day without a second notice. The driver, much too drunk, held the balance of life and death in his obliterated hands. Much, much too drunk, but what could she do? She had agreed to get in the truck. She felt guilt, but that wouldn't save her now. Nor would indulging the buzz that had hit her head, all too suddenly. It had been growing for hours, but there was the problem. It was all too subtle until it was too late. Her fear ran its course with the passing blurs. Each an obstacle overcome, only to be replaced by the next. Then the next. A seemingly infinite amount of ammo for the world to to take her out. Yet the farther they went, the more hope grew, that she would be ok. Every second a prayer answered. Every street a milestone. Until, at last, the destination was in sight! Thu-thump! The driver turned too tight, and came up on the sidewalk. "Oh sorry ha!" They were alive and they had arrived. Never again she promised. Until a couple of hours later, she had to make the journey back. Another drunk driver, another broken promise. Youth never learns?

From a flower springs nectar
that sweetens life
for a lowely drone bee,
a princely humming bird,
and every creature inbetween.
Or does the flower
feel a deeply rooted
quake of anticipation,
sensing its pollen
will soon be spread forth?
A most perfect union,
when all are fufilled.

As the moon rose over my sunny life,
I shivered, standing in the light.
I realize that I do not want to be,
that my laziness is killing me.
I've fought against man and brother,
But to fight imagination is another.
I cannot win nor give truces.
The fodder is fed with excuses.
An endless war I will wage,
Or die trying with my rage.