When the days ahead are misty

When the days ahead are misty,

No birds, no sun, no horizon,

Only pasturing clouds blocking

The shimmering view,

When the nights expand their hours

Like an endless starless sea

And your heart feels like a mellow sunset

Farewelling its summertime quest,

Remember your soul is the captain

Immune to the darkness ahead.

A world that matches the soul

Some say I am lost in a dream,

in a world that does not exist.

But they are wrong. It does exist.

In the deep forests, the vast lakes,

the sparkle of the sea,

the blossoming of a wildflower.

They sit in their glass and steel offices

and laugh at me, calling me a child.

But one day, when life forces them to see,

really see through their eternal eyes

and not the cultured mind,

they will not laugh any longer.

For I believe that a world that matches the soul

is not a dream, but the real world.

The world that was always meant to thrive

before humanity learned to close their eyes

and call reality a dream.

Angels can’t love

I walk into the shop I’ve been to many times before.

But now I am someone else.

I see them in there.

Those who come from the past.

They look different.

They see me.

Eyes opening wide.

They see me.

They see that I am beautiful.

More beautiful than before.

They walk over to me.

They want to be close to me.

Arms reaching for me.

That is when I see him.

Something passes between us.

A movement.

But he is not the one to protect me

when the war comes.

When the machine guns come.

Someone else steps in front of me.

I wait for death.

But it doesn’t come.

I see him again.

He is kneeling down.

Someone points a gun at me.

I start crying.

Wings slowly grow

from his shoulder blades.

The soldiers smile and nod their heads.

“Finally,” they say.

“That is what it took.”

They lay down their guns.

I am still crying.

I am safe.

But I am not loved.

Angels can’t love humans.

Not the way we need to be loved.

Exclusively. Exceptionally.

As though we were the only one

needing to be loved

by them.

*This is actually a dream I had while sleeping.

The Quarrel in your mind

The quarrel in your mind is

This promise of a firstborn miracle.

An accumulation of lyrical trailing thoughts

Rustling in the damp light.

A year’s precise fear is

Paralyzed by peace rippling

Into a chrysalis of extinguished time.

The rest is dissolved by beginnings.

A small wing twinkles delicately

As it slips through the weave

Of confounded memories

Washed away by too many

Perfect sunsets.

An extension of his dream

The rain has merged into solitude

The moon stares straight into dawn

Like a an anchored searchlight.

The wet wind has frozen the lines

Around his unchanged laughter

Reaching for me in his sleep;

An extension of his dream

Searching for a bare shore

 Where troubled waves

Can merge into the familiar crescendo

Of sand and sea.