Oh, witchy woman,
does old love
still
speak spells
of sorrow
into your being?

Does that
little rat familiar
still twitch
and occasionally
pull tiny droplets
of blood from
your veins?

Has time dulled
your self-hurting
ways,
or do you still
enjoy the thrill
of a little
***** pain?

It has been years,
and I know I am
much different
so, I wonder
have you also changed?

Perhaps, I am getting wiser
in my slightly graying days;

Learning that it is not the pain
itself that causes the most grief.
It is the anticipations, and attempts
to avoid future events
that may bring it.

Sorrow is of the past,
future suffering
may never actually come into being,

and reflecting on all of that
detracts from the pleasure that
I could be taking in the present moment.

Secret starlight
blazes across
the night sky
that I spy.

It promises
a reality
of wonder,
and endless possibilities.

Starship dreams
that inspire me
to sit and believe
we can be
something
wonderfully
unpredictable.

Back on the grass
I watched
those hopes pass
like gas
from my ***.

I seek and ask
why is this,
how is that,
but even when
I find my own answers
I still fall behind.

Books, and movies,
strange new stories,
inspire my poetry,
informing the artistry
I try to weave,

but reality
brings me back down
to this brown
earthly ground.

Hope dies
as I realize
that I am not
the norm.

Most people
dream of
money and
fancy things.

So, in sadness
I keep escaping
in fantasy.

Light speed,
sorcery,
sci-fi,
horror.

While my brethren
descend into the cavern
that devours
millennia of progress.

The night is a portrait,
of quietness,

such sad silence
punctuated by
loud lamp lights
that brighten
empty sidewalks.

This used to be
the bustling streets
of a busy city,

but now I only see
spectral memories,
people passing
like smokey figures
that dissipate
on a windy day.

Everyone has gone,
upped and moved on
from this listless existence,
while I have become
the dumb one,
stuck in the mud
like a big red truck
unable to roll away
or back towards yesterday.

So, I look longingly
at everything
that can no longer be,
and mourn the loss
of all of those
possibilities.

I used to know
more than one
super beautiful
poet goddess.

But in my old age,
and these late days
I can barely recall
a trace of their face.

There was the
beautiful blond
from some
far away
Estonia like place,
or was it actually
Estonia?

There was the wild
brown haired
young poet
whose Tumblr
is no longer there.

Then a friend
I’d chat with
almost every day,
she stopped talking to me
and that is ok.
I hope her life is great;
Just like the other two,
I cannot remember her name.

I only recall
the passion of their poetry,
not even the words themselves
just an inkling
of the embers
they stoked in me,
inspiring neurons firing
to make poems.

I am certain I would know them,
if I saw them.

But for now
they are lost echoes
of nostalgia.

I am a dying mirror,
glass skin
melting
and caving in
following the flow
the goes too slow,
distorting
reflections
that I used to know,
extracting
exacting
moments
that stress,
impress
or depress me
greatly.

I see and write
the night’s lite
beauty,
let it all
fall out of me
in literary wonder,

and hope before
I fall to pieces,
shattering permanently,
you get to see
what I believe
is the wonder
of all reality.

He help me unhinge,
So the rope fell down,
I was saved by the hangman,
Until his noose slipped around.
"Here let me help you" Im certain he said..
But I was fooled by the hangman,
And now I am dead.

I cannot be certain
or see beyond
this sea of grief
as I mourn the
slow erosion of
empathy and love.

I know that
kindness
and decency
still exists,
but violence
and corruption
is far more evident.

The earth is suffering
as are her children,
and no matter how much I wish
I cannot will them
back from the precipice
many seem to want to
stand on.

This could be
humanity’s
last revelation,
with no more good to come
just the mess of mad men
who run us all in
to the burial grounds.