Wisdom is in lacking,
in the empty space that you can look into
without flinching

In the understanding that
you can't understand,
you won't be able to reach the top shelf
you can never calculate the answer
and finding that, really,
that's okay.

Being "wise"
it has become such a cliche,
it's strung across the street of life we run down
like a grand, neon finish line
when it instead lies between the cracks in the cobblestones
on which we step,
if only we look closely enough.

Learning how to find inside yourself
what you have carried all along:
see the whites in your own eyes,
feel the pauses between your own breaths
and understand, this is what cannot be found anywhere else.

Butterflies in a quiet dawn appear,
threads of souls that circle near.
Through cycles of death and cry,
they wake anew beneath blue sky.
Wings remember what once they knew,
reborn, connected, forever true.

They fall, they rise, they breathe again,
from ash to air, from loss to flame.
A whisper born of lives gone by,
now riding light beneath the sky.
In every wing, a world made new,
rebirth in motion, pure and true.

Lead me to the lunar waterfall.
Chased in your crystalline dreams.
Bending beams of light colour the scene.
Sparkly, still, and serene.
You have what you hold,
And you hold what you hunger for.
And you got what you grasped.
And you want what you wield.
And you have me.
By the hand,
Jumping joyfully into
Mare Tranquillitas below,
Crying out Geronimo,
Bombs away,
Blasting regret,
Lost love,
Trenches, traps, and ticking time bombs,
Quarantine quarters,
And toxic teenage terrains.
Dispersing into droplets,
As our flesh hits the foam,
Diving down,
Delving deep into memory.
Looking up to the surface,
Light lances through,
Tears twining with the tide—
You can’t see me cry.
Skeletons of secret sins,
Dancing, drying by the fires
Started with your cold heart’s last gleaming.
Like the Fourth with Fireworks,
Blazing bursts in the ******* sky,
Same shade as your iris,
Glowing galaxies in circles around a black hole,
Dilated, dark,
Growing, gravitating by the minute.
Minuet in G,
In the newborn garden of Eve,
Setting sun, seen from Hadley Rill,
Watching wonders from the hills,
Ocean of storms,
Swirling, sighing, singing.
The centre of your soul,
Aligns with mine.
Two event horizons,
Colliding,
Black holes, binding,
Into the big bang,
Giving life, light, love
Again
To our weary, wandering hands.
We pick up the pen, the power,
Mightier than the howling hordes
Against us
When they find out
What we did
On the backside of the bold, bright Luna.
I have you in my head.
Bloodrushed,
Pulsing, pounding under my skin,
Veins vibrant, alight from within.
Spark me,
Smoke me,
Like a **** of twilight’s last hope.
Luke, you are the Last one.
I need social shields,
To cope with the look on their faces
When they see me
At the party
You throw in my honour.
I regained,
In the war for your word,
Returned to glory,
For the story.
For the girl,
For bounty,
For *****,
And being bold,
Standing up for the good,
To our own selves
We can be true.
Lovers, in luminous, lawless times.
Nuclear nightmares aimed over waves.
We have our lunar lunch,
Floating in the featherlight fog of low gravity,
Double-jointed dream suits,
Spacetime spiraling,
Redux and redo,
Tea for two,
Waltzing on the moon.

It was once an empty sheet,
silent, weightless, plain.
But ink kissed its surface,
and suddenly, it breathed
a fragment of you,
sent across miles.

The paper is no longer paper.
It is your voice,
folded between the lines.
It is your hand,
pressed into every curve of ink,
as though you were sitting beside it,
beside me.

How strange,
that distance loses its teeth
when I hold this fragile thing.
It feels as though my heart
travels back to you,
through the path your words carved,
through the scent still resting
on the page.

This letter is not mere stationery
it is proof.
Proof that love survives oceans,
that time cannot dull longing,
that something as small as ink and paper
can outweigh the heaviest miles.

What gift could be more precious
than this?
A piece of your soul,
placed gently in my hands.
It tells me stories,
it holds me close.
It will stay with me
as priceless as the heartbeat
that wrote it.

As a child, the backyard was
my sanctuary and my
playground.
I climbed the soft
pine tree and crawled to
the top of the garage.
I stood and gazed at all the
houses and streets.
I felt rich.

My mom had a brown
jewelry box shaped like
a treasure chest.
It reminded me of
pirates and adventure.
I filled it with
football cards
gum
candy bars
family pictures, and a few
coins.

I found a small shovel
and buried it in the
backyard close to the
pine tree.
I pretended to forget
where it was.
A week or so later, I
suggested to my best friend,
Wally, that we should
search my yard for buried treasure.

Of course, we found it.
I acted surprised.
We celebrated.
All these years later,
I realize that my treasure,
then and now, is imagination.
I'm a wealthy man.