this lonely poet.

Suddenly you are there.

the highest peak

of the tallest mountain

waves flowing green

and tides pulsing

you against the winds

back and forth in

motion

that slowly

ceases

and slowly

dies.

Only the heaving breath —

hard pounding heart

But the vessel is broken

Painting a stone wall

With a brush for detailing

In the middle of the suns rotation

Sweat swarming your body

Drowning you in light, heat -

You become wet

The headache starts

It pounds as your heart pulses

Weakly under the skin

Tight and burning

But you persevere relentlessly

Angry because the paint is drying too quickly

For you to paint precisely

So you paint over the same spot

Again and again

It dries and you paint

Again and again

It's now nightfall and you fall too.

You never finished the wall

And it's not near to perfect

You start again the next day

Just to hate what I see.

Last night I had to let my girl, my cat, my companion, Lola... go. Terminal illnesses in cats move fast and unfortunately I could not keep up with her. The grief is unbearable but I hope to create and post a poem in her memory soon.

Falling so rhapsodically

Is a wine, movie, and something

When im hanging out with 'new friends'

With crippling social anxiety

My brain hurts me and

Suggests I wasn't good enough

Suggests I made a fool of myself

Enough so that I force myself to accept that

Inadequate for my needs

Why can't I walk a cobblestone street

Into a building, with pillars neat

Be greeted with a hearth so warm

My coat is thus, forlorn

When a cup of black is most sweet

And bells rung upon the street

The horses clop amongst the rubble

Of the groups of girls that giggle and muddle

When books of new parchment smelt most fresh

Of pines and woods of forests kept

A cigarette smoke that lofts past

Amongst the grey skies of past

It must be Europe that I speak of

In an age when books were made of

Intelligent young folk, making their way in the world

When a future was promised

A meaning meant well

Now tis a boring age, of white walls

Squared and plain

With sidewalks smooth like polished stone

Not a chip, nor crack, nor crevice known

All but straight and perfect now

Nor buildings high and intricate in detail

Nor horses that pull a carriage in avail

Nay, a cigarette as rare as the time of day

Of a walk less brisk than made today

Not a coffee made with loves bitter sweet

and watched the stars burst

that I knew then

you were the darkness,

not the thing so beneign

nor as bright or hopeful

hot cocoa on a winters eve

that is the warmth of a lover

a bond so strong, it makes even God

When there is love, peace

And so empty when nothing but

Nothing at all, sits and feasts,

Though pumping with blood

A red burn'ed beast