The past is like a diamond;

surefooted,

untraceable.

And I yearn to be untraceable like the past,

the freedom of being unfound.

Determined archaeologists search,

skilled historians scour,

honest scientists might question;

but they will never find

because none seek /

and there is not one who will seek,

even to do what is right.

It is simply not in their greed.

All care for the pay of the world...

I genuinely care for them.

The love I have bleeds out but it is unknown,

and I would never ask someone

to clean up my wounds;

the sheep may be helpless but I am not.

It bleeds out in mystery, in religion;

you cannot see it, but I am not embarrassed by it,

I am not embarrassed by my living.

In the practical sense I dwell on top of a hill,

I sleep outside, play music under the stars, tell st...

well father,

I am thinking again about love and I am wondering again why life is so dramatic and unfair. Here in the shipwreck of it all I have wished many times and thrown all my pennies in the sea. narrower. narrower. now all my baggage is in the sea. It wasn’t useless either.

well father,

I am starting to stare into the sky again and watch as the birds all have somewhere to be. somewhere to ...

Concerning the ranger;

he is both wild and careful.

The very woods he was hewn from, shake with magic — but he was not a craft of nature; he did not profess to control it either.

This striding stranger is the very essence of meekness, but not in sadness, in the choice to quiet down all of his tragedy even though he should not; the choice to stay silent though he is prone to be defiant and unconv...

I am sabotaged by the knowledge that I will miss this day, so I am glad that the sun has touched me.

I am glad that she chose to beat down and warm in the crevices and dips of my shoulder.

It was all very kind and wonderful.

It was all a very beautiful and bustling afternoon.

All blue sky, sweet and tired as ripe oranges.

Hot sand smiling and gleaming with the water heaving against it’s shore...

The sky was blue in my country

the house was blue

my little weeds grew sweetly

lifting their small faces up humbly

to the source of their grounded lives.

My mother didn’t like them;

she yanked them from the dirt

and threw them in a bucket

next to the sandpit.

I didn’t understand

why they chose to grow

where she could see them.

I sat in the little blue sandpit

and crouched down to the eart...

each day we use a new damaged thing,

but we don’t realize it.

like broken bristles on a brush;

toothless, smile gone,

and it only scratches my head,

and time tells of my tangles.

but i am lazy to care too much.

borrowed it years ago;

never had the heart to give it back,

never had the heart to pull it out.

now the handle’s gone and left me in tears,

sane and stubbed and sad.

broken bristles ...

peace to me

is a golden haired dog

asleep on a floor

by a fireplace.

and a fire

which is concealed but still spreading,

and it’s casting its warm radiance.

and i could say it is like the sun,

but it’s not harsh like the sun,

it’s not cold like the sun,

it is quiet unlike the sun.

peace to me is a dream i can’t catch with my hands, it becomes a buzzing in my ear

for some reason.

and it hurts ...

hiding under the fig tree

has become my past time.

“do you see me?” I cry,

tearing the grass of my labor from it’s roots.

“do not hide your face from me.”

i hear my voice whine,

like an old carriage, deteriorated from its long years of faithful service.

i say this in a place I do not know;

in a time that isn’t mine,

but in the distance someone hears me,

and pays attention to my cry.

perhaps soon I...

i think the moon loves the sun.

though they could be enemies, i believe they are lovers, drenched in the tragedy that they will never cross paths.

simply a classic story told by shakespeare, but i might not be unscathed enough to believe in such magic.

the moon is cold, like a breath stolen in winter;

covered in craters made by the stars’ paper airplanes.

the sun is hot, like an embrace made fro...