Beyond Giants

A small person is gifted,
Sparingly, the biggest secrets-
Lying awake, in his small space
In his small soul, in his soul's soul.

It becomes a journey, a fight
He wants and needs- he is lithe,
Tipping, walking the line
Between glory and vanity.

This world seems to big, too low, up
For anyone on that tightrope,
Dangling between
The man next in line and
Too many means and ends.

On My Own

I close my eyes and he is there,
Sweet tendrils of touch and feel- lukewarm
Spewing, raging from memory-
He calls the name of another.

Without flaw, without faith of plot
Runs one night to the next;
My dreams draw the finest shards
Of a poor mirror's broken kaleidoscope.

To yearn is empty, passions thrive,
Hide, and shroud my old crudity-
Secretly spartan walls unsightly,
Still alone at siege's end.

Exposed

Right at my hands,
My mind has two halves
Pulled open- to rust, to mingle,
To suffocate each other (briefly).

The mysteries only tantalize,
Tempt at some endless possibility
Reveling in a dance of the dark.

In the light, all is quiet,
The chandelier still swings
A melancholy creak-
Another closed door lost.

Cold Journey

These questions were once answers
As answers, again, become questions-
Infinite knowledge confines- lost
In small boxes, one by one.

The divine leap is far away-
To dream beyond a plotted field,
Beyond the milky river, leaking
Such intricacies, fancies
Need not, yet needed- we follow.

Soon, we are beyond the doubters,
Lost voices calling us back, darkly
To the endless circles, the company
Of mirrors in right and wrong.

Aligning Souls

We walk in silence, not fear-
Simple splashes of vibrant blossom
Grace, fall so faintly
To the empty eyes of Far Away.

We walk in comfort, not certainty-
The fragrance abundant, filling
Its own admiration, stops
Before any devotions (still impossible).

We walk in truth, not luxury-
This spring won't always be
Quite so teeming, so merciful-
The breeze blows sweet, indecisive.

We walk softly, not rippling
Our water lily roots-
They sink beyond the painting,
Fall to endless watercolor ponds.

Intricate Optimism

A disgusting thief is greed,
Which prods at sleeping shame-
That poor, dull face
Long far from that pain.

Yet, the plunder pushes, defies
What seems to be its pulse,
To all, but some hidden, lost heir
Its darkness truly bequeath.

The only, so common escape?
To be born a sin, yet bearing
As a fugitive trader, Unknowns
Stolen from beyond the dark.

The Heavenly Plane

Angels are to be dreamed of,
And aren't so far away at all.
They talk so strange, some say,
One finds they rarely call.

It's not so fearful, not so strange,
To be silent, and to hear
Simple words, simple tales
As pain we know so clear.

The kindest souls we come to be
When to us are fortunes clear-
When we dream as reading hearts
And not as mirrored fear.