A decade from now,
            My words will only be a carcass even birds won’t want
            To pick at anymore.

I won’t be able to keep track of where my similes skip off to,
And maybe I’ll discover later that they crossed the street like a chicken
That wouldn’t know to look both ways,
Causing a six car pileup,
But never making it to the other side of the road as I intended them to.

Maybe my metaphors will age quickly,
            And ten years down the road
            Their doggy jowls will quiver with one last yawning breath
            As they collapse beneath the nearest tree from hip failure
            Resting at last beneath a pleasant summer sun.

I don’t like to think about it,
But I’ve entertained the idea
That perhaps I will neglect my words,
            Letting all the quatrains pass me by.

Yes, that is how my structured sentences will meet their end:
            With no periods
            But a blank space
                        Where your name should be.

I’d like to think that someday
            I won’t have this horrible need to write anymore
I’ll describe my perfect days because I want to,
Not to fill this void I made
When I handed out my consonance like candy
            And scattered similes in the air like skittles
            During that drought we had a while ago
When everything was black and white
And I thought everybody wanted
A taste of the colors I’m made of.

I like to entertain the thought that someday

Someday
            People are going to reach back through the decades and excavate my words
            And try to find deep meanings beneath all my poetry.
            Scholars will slit the throats of my similes,
            Claiming there was some philosophical point pumping through the jugular,
            And I might laugh somberly [a little] if they do.

            They’re going to find the rotted carcasses in the most random of places:
            A passenger seat,
            The floor by a bathroom,
            A stairwell,
            Under a tree.

I know that some might try to find the cause of death.
In fact,
I know they will.

But I’d much rather people look for the only reason of birth,
The only meaning behind all my metaphors,
I want these people to catch the quatrains I let pass me by when it hurt too much.

When it hurt too much
To just write-

I love you.

When I give you my time, I'm giving you a portion of my life that I will never get back so don't waste it.

Don't, when I give you my life, waste a portion of I. I'm giving you back my time so that it will never get waste.

For science and art
Are but two interpretations
Of the one infinity,
Called the Universe.

I am
A question mark
Slouching, lurking behind the wall
Waiting to stretch out
Into an exclamation mark.

They, you and I.
Are?
Interpretations, opinions,
Fears and convictions,
Likes-dislikes,
History and anticipations,
Of life.
All, save the living of it, maybe?

A song heard months back in time
You mused over the major & minor,
I'd pondered over the rhyme.
Each of us
As convinced about its presence.
Winter tastes different in my memory.

Epilogue:
You must choose between
His bespectacled vision
And my retrospective conclusion
But you must know
Which you chose
And why.

It is the waiting hour
And our time is nearly up
But what will matter when it comes?
When our waiting stops

So we clutch our dying dreams
And watch the embers burn
An hour gone's
An hour lost
But our waiting doesn't stop

It is the waiting hour
And these dreams will never end
sometime soon
Around that bend
It'll come and end our pain

But the time is running out
And our lessons never learned
The waiting done
Will make us Dumb
And death won't stop a thing

It is the waiting hour
Our time is nearly up
nothing will matter when it comes
When our waiting stops