Never, during his entire mad, unmanaged spree
Could he see, though he claimed to look
Could he understand, though he claimed to know
Could he love, though he claimed a heart
I, then, left cut, scattered, chasing, winded


Like a trudge up a hill in the mud
In my Sunday best and all
Clearly, I’m doing it wrong

All wrong

Eyes shut, I’m to don a red cap
In the end, all will be great again
Clearly, as mud it is

The Art of Making

The Scene: You are an actor and I, an epic script
With minds to set the screen afire
With hope upon our lips

The Method: Be emboldened and feel the risk with me
We’ll project timeless, endless strength
We’ll cast doubt to the sea

Last Ditch

Have you felt invisible
Made from supernatural
Then unmade by someone’s lack?
So have some of us

We become as sunflowers, though
We watch for a flicker
We turn in accordance
We thrive in The Light


I am to go deep with you
Some say I have
Some ask what for
I know there’s no secret You
No obscure path
No hide and seek
I, Earthbound, in need of you
You, Smith…I, rod
You, Shield…I, scout


Give me, gift me your assignment now that you are gone, for I was to each day greet your wrinkles, your papers: My touch, the unsugar-coated ink atop your laugh lines, your copy lines…my voice, an unedited reporting of your happiness, your joy.