Rain weary air
gives way to fire laden breath,
a soul escaping the confines of flesh
and set free in exhalation of thought;
into night on rising tides
of fluttering light crowned in autumn hues
it flies, upward to drift in an ocean of wonder
bedecked with jewels of every color,
each the keeper of a dream,
or a wish, some now long forgotten
but out there still, held safe in silent prayers
now tended by we who dream now
and tomorrow–and in that hope,
in the essence of gossamer strands
that bind souls together is found
that thing, that simplest of things
that makes you and I one:
for if from stars we are born,
then stars we must be,
light enduring before and after
we were born to darkness–
but darkness knows not itself
without the light to shine upon it,
and souls, as dreams, are that
formless fire of creation,
eternal and unyielding.


surreal the vastness of morning,
awash in the potential of day;
limitations set only
by the refusal of motion
wait to be cast away

would it be so hard to imagine
that in the haze of tomorrow
lies a path of becoming today
where hopes and dreams
and so many other things
are given the right of way?

the stillness of the misted morn
reflects the peace before the storm
and hope unconquered
and dreams unborrowed
are in themselves reborn

not yet

barefoot on blades
that bend and wave
the comfort of earth
and her embrace

cool the green
fades to grey
‘neath indigo cloak
that shrouds the day
and laughing breezes
carry evening
from miles away

peace, their whispers,
strung across a gossamer
sky, where dreams
unfolding are set alight,
as a world awakens
and comes alive

arms outstretched
to endless horizons
touching tomorrow
with nothing relied on
but a moment of hope
in a moment of faith
that tomorrow will come
but not today


It is the end of summer
and thus the light dies;
it is the end of ever,
comes eternal night.

A rebellion of being
in a moment of faith,
a question of answers
and creator replaced;
the worry of breathing
when the air is this cold,
when silence of chaos
and its order unfolds.

The death of a dream
that was ever unborn,
and I in my doing
exist but to mourn.