How come I can be optimistic for everyone else?
How come I fault when it comes to my own,
And I

Is this poetry, or self centered contemplation?
Is this a path into the heart, as it should

Time of grey skies and hibernation
quiet nights spent in contemplation ...
deep depressions and

Time of grey skies and hibernation
quiet nights spent in contemplation
deep depression and more

My mortality beckons me
The evils I lust for draw me in
As I draw nearer, the purifying

Not so far the evening rolls/
Into the mist of stars/
Draining the day of it’s loft/
Avoiding

I’m dumb to leaves and prairie grass;
a million colors can't be named.
Wind conspires with

This patch could be any other:
A spot of grass below
a blue and clouded canvas
and I, an ancient

What do you call the spinning cycle of life;
when one has no faith?

A hoax; a dream
that we

A quiet place waits at the end of passion,
rumored by the blind,
the last reward for righteous

The coffee burns as I dip,
Peppering the plastic beak of the cup lid,
With my scrawny