Hope is the last thing ever lost" - Italian proverb

Hope.
And what if it is lost.
Call to it to come back.
It will come even in the face
of terminal blackness.
Walk into the ravaging dark.
Fall apart so that you may find,
Those long lost moments that made you shine.
The fireflies of the mind.
That flashing glow somehow soothes
things gone out of control.
Save one in a jar in your soul.
Hope.
The magic light that ignites internal growth.

Break through my shiny membranes.
Strip my soul raw
and stalk me insane.
Sink into my tissues.
Your lustful caw echoes
deep in my brains coves.
You never left but yet I miss you.
Pleasure finally reigns, the exodus of pain.
Make lace of my violin veins
Inhuman sounds in every primal refrain.
You are ecstasy tainted with hell,
If denied possession of you,
in the sweet shackles of my cells.

Rain oozed down the windshield.
Like ants, people scampering about
their unexamined lives, dodging raindrops.
The sky and her liquid laugh.
Earth's in charge here,
although some ego's would beg to differ.
Rain is not selective,
it pours down on the lives of everyone,
regardless of your status.
Whenever and wherever it wants.
Leaving puddles of its existence.
So go get wet.
Get soaked.
Feel alive.
The inventor of the umbrella,
never felt free inside.

Is the surface of the soul like moon stained craters....
Or aquamarine like magical glaciers....
Is the surface of the soul scarred with battle wounds.....
Or is it a sheet of ice you lie beneath with lips of frozen blue.....
Is it a field that stretches forever with happy wildflowers.....
Or sands of time with secret dunes that devour prescious hours.....
At the surface of the soul, no encounter is by chance.
No matter what the terrain of your inner land.
You must sink or dive below the surface,
to ever really know.....

Towering cotton white orchids.
Splattered with a purple hue,
like fresh pooled blood stains.  
If death had occured,
the orchids are oblivious
and unapologetically vain.  
Bizarre and exotic.  
Petals plush and ******.  
The orchid's eye bores into me and see,
me writhing in the broken chrysalis  
of my massacred dreams.  
The orchids know that all
is not what it seems......
Even in the most dire of times
the cost of hope is free......
They whisper, emerge...
and tower tall and unique,
like the beauty of me......

There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth" - Nietzsche

I contemplate, but I'm startled and seduced.
By the bone white gargantuan moon.
In it's sedating silence,
it sweetly loomed.  
Over the dark lapping waters.
In attempt to calm my silent tortures.  
Clouds, the steam
of day driven dreams.
Mingle with the moon's
brightest beams.
The shallow tide boasts  
a turquoise ghostly glow.
To display the corals of  
haunted thoughts lodged below.  
Never fear the terror of your deep.
Submerged beneath is where
the wisdom sleeps.

Broken thoughts.  
A cracked terrain in my brain.  
Where a desolate highway stretches to  
a familiar nowhere.  
Where dreams have died,  
from thirsting too long to be alive.  
Dehydrated and depleted of happiness,
I stumble along, obsessing where I went wrong.  
There is a bird in the bramble of desire  
that entangles my heart.
Who sings oblivious joy.  
It's our ability to think,  
that is the root of our suffering.  
Mend your thoughts, change your world.