I canít let go
"i can't let go"
i can't let go of the past,
i know that it's killing me
to see what has carried
into the present scene
with more sad theater
still waiting to unfold,
page by page
the play returns.
prelude: a thought,
why bother at all?
act one: birth,
a cry to even see day one.
act two: love hurts,
a misty story will be told.
act three: death,
what's the difference?
i'm in the right groove
to know my heart
it shudders to think
there is no place
from which to hide
of outer space.
"memories" (by bohdan yuri & steffon hamulak)
they are the history of forgotten lifetimes,
recording earth's passage in too short phases,
and traveling solely within our own lost line,
as a depository, in turn, a soulful luster,
on a journey of self-seeking intoxications
that tempts the psyche in many false ways
until the world and the words in it
transpire, even conspire, to form
a translucent past that reflects thought
as crucial segments of former times,
though unlike elementary renditions,
our salient moments cause us to reflect
most delicately upon their meaning:
our loves, our hates, our kindness,
our betrayals, our sins, our deeds,
our lack thereof;
in whatever shape it should hold its truth,
and cursed by the sadness our mistakes,
we design our most pensive recollections
into mythical fractions in the mesh of time.
we are authors given that we bind the storyline,
as characters in the eternal play
the red morning sky
lost its hue
outside the hazy veil,
by the loss in view
we ought not to forget,
our last refuge
hides in darkness,
assuming an abstract place,
yet every sunrise
most clearly refutes
the universe of nothing.
unfortunate for those
who know not to trust,
in space there are more suns.
autumn dreams in mystic tones
that pall the ruined summer bloom;
cast adrift, to resist any far-off mislay,
each leafy page a life long sacrifice,
collected by the wind's chilling breath
upon lost shadows of forgotten plays,
abounded in death's last place
on ground, into ground, and separated
in space through a ceremony of hope
to begin afresh, as spring will dream
in mystic tones.
"one more time"
one more time and i'll be done,
what's a lifetime now and then,
a mistake or two if only a few,
and a little success along the way.
topped by a moving pool of creatures
sweet and sour in its rotting flesh tones,
and spinning stridently in voids off norm,
i lived in a world of monsters,
voracious beasts that knew it all,
yet were senselessly out of control,
and unable to restore any lost soul,
so easy to become one's own nightmare,
forced again to travel into another time
inside the contrition of sorrow and regret,
from here to here, always living anywhere.
"is jazz played inside of outer space?"
nomads trek the globe
in search of god's gift of grace,
unaware that such a legacy
was never granted in the overture.
giving life to a fruitless journey,
losing all that never was to be,
and before the sun should rise
we will dwell on mislaid mysteries.
not ready to control our lonely hearts
inside the confines of our gentle ride,
we are unable to solve god's secret silence,
and jazz is played everywhere.
"harsh reflections from a full moon"
the mourning sun displays its breath
near wintry shadow's smoky haze,
a fireplace, a comforter, a lay inside,
anticipate the taste of morning eggs.
arms wrapped while the hands caress
the silky softness of her unguarded skin,
i searched for redemption from regret
and found her pulse to be positively dim.
in the break of time, tears will predict
an empty space between our embrace,
where cutting words sought to relieve
the harsh reflections from a full moon.
trying to see in,
the orange window
of a falling sunset,
a background to the shadows
that desperately seek
to recognize the softness
in each other's eyes.
the heart is lost
yet. the gift,
to have known
it was once there
to allow two as one
to fall in love,
what's left hides inside,
the former glow fades
a neon enchantment
that allows entry
through the door
of a new cafť
but first to separate
as we are both lost
to the night's eye.
"days without rain"
the poet walks about on days without rain,
he observes the sun, grateful for its rays
splashed on children about every play.
the twilight filters the softest repose,
while nighttime plays every which way.
on days absorbed by the sky's watery fall
the poet imagines inside, a desire to trace
lost melodies from the edge of space,
and most often will be the need to write
about the dreams from days without rain.