Muses in Love


And as clichéd as these muses in love,

The aching sun sighs and lays down it’s light,

And we feast on the fat and swollen dove,

Until all our hope fades into the night.

Arching chords of a music so long lost,

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Birds in Flight


How a bird remembers the mapped travel,

It truly is a marvel of a thing,

We journey, so lost, on the gravel,

If only we could fly under the wing.

For mere men, such an archaic dream,

That no tin creation can replicate,

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Such deep sadness does not belong to me,

If I ne’er do pen my name to the page,

As I cry ‘neath my shaded paper tree.

All character sans names are absentee,

No feeling or person can lock my cage,

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The Art of Youth


Young eyes spy the past in a modern square,
A quest to find and behold beauty,
Vestal Virgins painted white and fair,
An artful hunt becomes my life’s duty.

With the luminosity of the known,
It reminds me of travels north bound,
First flutters with life unsure and alone,
And how many perceptions can be found.

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Sage’s Time


I watch images of my looking back,

My tired life of this and then of that,

Listening to my life’s own soundtrack,

Awaiting a song, ne’er to arrive at.


I do find myself naked and ashamed,

Seized by the world’s ceaseless brutality,

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Messages In Flight

The cold winds of change leave nothing to spare,

As skin prickles and the sun bows farewell,

A force awakens and all are aware,

Of how life will turn on this carousel.

The luscious grass passes and goes to seed,

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