At first it was this flourishing sight of beauty.
Butterflies, monkeys, squirrels and green leaves,
now it is a dying mountain of broken branches.
Darkness reigns where the sun once was empress.
Like a cocoon of protection around the next generation.
I soil and water the faithful parts, now lacking splendor.
Read the sobbing hopeless trunk stories of the glory days.
And hope, in the slowest seconds of truth and simplicity,
love, will fearlessly, unleash all the life I trust it possesses.
The beautiful thing about the floods…
When the water finally stops drowning the land,
the grass glistens the reflection of heavy clouds.
Before the next flood comes i’ll marvel at the stars.
Unspoken turned spoken drifted into undeniable fact.
It must be simple audacity or the reasonable idea of insanity.
The jury is still out and the box not yet buried.
When the doors opens and the hole closes.
One can only accept whatever kind of joy the future’s dawn brings.
Love is like running red lights.
You’re bound to get hit.
And if you awake…
You wake out of a beautiful haze.
And than comes the pain of the crash.
A broken heart that can’t seem mend.
If you don’t awake you are blessed,
blessed with a mesmerizing coma.
A coma that makes the love last for years.
We can all only aim to get hit, hard.
Hard enough to fall deep, deep into a coma.
And in our comatose dream the love lasts forever.
May we never open our eyes,
so our love can go on into time and space.
