Unwritten

The story that writes itself is the only one that can be written, and I as the author and weaver of tales can only write what is there to be written.

Patterns

Patterns unfolding reveal the unseen Silence is broken by what is observed A curse and a burden this gift of sight Wisdom unwanted for blindness I yearn

Longing

Sleep evades me Though I have worlds to tread I'm lost in this one And words left unsaid My dreams aren't as real As the beauty I see Nor leave with me longing As much as she

Angry ‘Haiku’

the rabbit hole downward spiral no light at the bottom

Hurt

Fire would be more pleasant, I think,  than this grinding cold  that freezes me; whispered prayers through gritted teeth, unheard, unanswered,unleashing hell, begging for release.

Borrowed Time

This gift... mine to hold but not to own, I can borrow it but only for a while; soon it must be passed on and left behind, and allowed to belong to another.

Vignette

Brutal the death of a ragged hope squandered  and spent  where light lingers and allowed to die empty, afraid, and alone.

The Sound of Light

Within the soundof your lightis the colorand songof my heart.

Suffocated

Sense of worth lost in words offered in silent prayer left unanswered, overlooked, and allowed to be suffocated by the importance of time.