An ongoing work composed of poems during a time of great transformation.

Yet Two Remain

I watch the remnants of joy
as they drip out.
thrice over.
Blackness.
Bleakness.
Blankness.
I’ve lost it all.
She was the wind
and I a vessel of stone.
Blowing by,
she tipped me over unaware.
And I watch the remnants of joy
as they drip out.
First one,
then two,
then three.

At the Tinderbox

Snow falls gently on a restless field,
as the raven flies in the early dawn.
Far below lies sorrow and hope,
and a journey to move on.

The afternoon brings wistful rains,
and winds that drag the raven down,
he lets hope’s veil fall to the ground,
free to soar higher into the sky above.

trust the process

They say in two months I’ll be better,
More accurately in six to eight weeks.
I could start feeling something in two.
As if anyone even has a clue.
I’m glad my story didn’t come to an end in December,
But will August really be that much better?
I’m tired of drifting,
a broken mind,
a broken body,
a broken heart.

I grab a drink at the bar.
I want to cry but I’m too fucking numb.
Why can’t I just cry?
All day I scream at myself to get something done,
as time drifts away.

When will my mind be fixed?
August feels too far away.
But they say….
in two months I’ll be better.