i am convinced now that
no passion exists
like that between
a man and his craft.
no love
like the love for solitude,
by which one can enter
a world all his own,
and plunge to its unfathomable depths,
carelessly disregarding his return.
no quest otherwise compares-
oh how could it?
when countless years of history
can never be retold,
never be reenacted
with different players and different settings?
a man plays a role for
a day, a month, a year, a decade,
then withers in the sun, a palm in the desert.
no amount of memories can be remade,
and no amount of care is remembered.
he is destined only to be vessel of loneliness
for others to mistakenly join and unjoin.

but in his craft
a man loses himself.
he has only his love to invest
and only his love to be returned.
when stricken with failure
he selfishly laps it all up,
gathers it close to his heart,
and holds it as treasure, locked and filed.
he searches for the bottom with lighted torch,
the end with relentless fervor,
finds no evil along the way to be a hindrance,
has no expectation dashed and destroyed.
his eagerness for success drives him deeper.
his delusions of grandeur,
perpetually emboldened.
come find me, i am waiting for you
the solitude beckons him into its fissure,
the cleft in the crust of civilization,
indescribable and hardly intelligible to others.

yet its perfection is infinite as the stars are remote.

with enthusiasm does a man pursue that perfection,
does he pray to be with that god,
Lord of his life and Giver of his breath.
he is a post for flags to be hung,
seen only by those who wander the same mountains,
searching for a chasm of their own.
he is unaided in his walk with the stars,
windowless and guided by celestial phosphorescence.

a man needs silence,
darkness beneath his eyelids,
and space in his bed to breathe.

I am not a hypnotic, nor an ******
I am more like over flowing
a waterfall, of rushing Stimulant

I am an empty vessel, made of flesh and bone
I am not a hollowfull of mindless  things, gathering moss on stone

We are with one another, separate yet not apart
I am the Voice at the end of the Receiver
You can hear my Voice, but may not hear my Heart

If I talk to you with Words,
You might hear my Voice, or rather your perception of it, I will not know how it sounds or what you have heard

You might prefer it that way, I assume that's why you read Poetry

You can take a little bit of every poem and make it all your own

You create the image, the fantasy, the meaning, the mystery of the Soul that holds the Pen that wrote the words that touched your Heart.

Heart to Heart the Poetry bonds us, so simply, it's hard to conceive, how real the closeness, how deep the Intimacy.

....Of Poetry, It links Us together, not locked in time, but binds us forever.

Sweet, Sweet Poetry...Ahhhh