As night pulls down its wild dark curtains
And heavy eyelids drop lazily,
I ponder with spider-like loomed shadows,
Thoughts torture my broken, weary soul.

Everything around my room plays tricks;
Shadows with shattered hearts wander,
Carrying bloody, slaughtered dreams,
All howl, moan in pain, "that's insane, that's insane."

I seek a way out, is there no escape?
The door's locked with heavy chains.
Windows, it seems, are all covered with tar,
Behind the sill, bars add weight.

I squeak open the rusty door
and moist morning air comes pouring in
just like so many times before.
Time another day begins,

A couple steps onto the weathered deck
and grey squirrels start to bark at me.
I shrug my shoulders and stiff neck
in the shadow of a huge oak tree.

I blink and a deer simply appears.
It stops, stomps feet and stares at me
then drops it head without a care.
He walks away ignoring me.

The vibrancy of spring is in the air;
and the dark brown shells that protect
against winter’s growthless realm
vibrates again, mothered by a soft sun.

And though there is joy all around me
my heart does not lift up. My soul carries
on its back a weight that drags me down.
A weight that seems to stifle all growth.

The buoyancy of a ballon is the lightness
of the gas that fills it, so that it descends
up to the heavens. The gas has not filled,
my spirit has not sparkled soul’s buoyancy.

Upon the Land of Imagery I land, Oh,
In search of endless mystery.
I pick its ripening fruits, to grow
With its seeds the poetry tree.

I've toured around for years its highs
For there's more ... a poets call,
Some fruits delight the tired eyes,
Some sing, some drawl and squall.

I've seen the cream, sour and sweet;
They trigger up tremendous arts.
Some soft and silky, they gently treat,
While others hard as stony hearts.

On Imagery Land go find me,
Painting pieces of poetry.

It's almost dawn, I open the door
and let the air rush in
Fresh and cool, I don't need more
the sun soon rises; an extra win.

A few steps onto the old wooden deck
and squirrels start to bark at me
I shrug my shoulders and my neck
in the shadow of the giant oak tree.

A deer appears from somewhere afar
then stops and strangely stares at me
I thought that is quite bizarre;
it turns and walks carelessly.

Punching away shadows, shapes
Back were they came from, from the street
Lights smothering the Inky abyss and pockets
Above the silk black blanket
A sinister grin from a ghostly moon
that changed its shape
from a horn to a circular glow

Punching away shadows, shapes.
Back where they came from, from the gritty street
Lights smothering the pockets of odor with glare
Above the black, silk blanket
A sinister grin from the ghostly moon
that changed its shape
from a horn to a circular glow

Shapes...

Punching away shadows, dark, floppy shapes.
Back where they came from, the dirty street.
Lights smothering the black, inky abyss, the pockets.

Above the silken, ebon blanket,
a silver, sinister grin from the ghostly moon,
changing shape, from horns to mirrored glow.

The night is solid black,
there is but one star out,
the moon a thin sliver.

And a sudden fear strikes me,
Which can happen if lost
in the middle of a black forest,

where you could not see the trees,
with barely enough light to see
beyond your outstretched arm.

So, we huddle closely together,
our souls burning like a light tower
against this, scary, too silent night.

We hold our vigil, share our heat,
the way fires can combine as one,
We await the saving light of day.

what a time it was
front door deliveries please
and then I saw you
firstly, a crown for a queen
lastly, our very own world

Bright white light, floods yet again
Locked in waist length braids
She proudly walks
Stepping safe and sure
Her calm allure, so pure

Sleep into silent dream
Unknown worlds and schemes
Clouded, foggy visions
Green gardens of faith
Beyond the guarded gate

Clear stream of unconsciousness
Pulls her heart from scorching fire
He tosses it aside
Stay here forever...
His fantasy stops