CPoetry

compassion and loving-kindness are sweet on the outside, but the sweetest if cultivated within; all honey comes from a hive. ::: observe closely: what is shown is presented bare. i approach as me whose loved unrequited care. checking eyes but they want to rest. hiding hands but they want to hold. loyal actions but they want loyalty. soft lips but they want warmth. steady heart but it wants fervent desire. this yearning appears small but the feelings are full. this is just the tip of the iceberg; so much more of me---of my love lie beneath the neck of the waves. ::: what are these mental afflictions? some part imperfection? another part redirection? some part intersection of falsehoods and truthhoods? where titans clash and sling their lightning bolts, warring tirelessly against the freedom of choice and theater of fate? culminating as two single thoughts: who will win the war? how will we act? ::: only have i painted the stars. only have i painted the moon. never have i been to space.

now it is time i cast you  to sea. past be the past that pass away from me; yonder is your call that befalls deaf retrieve; i am no longer to you nor are you a vessel to keep. ::: you capsized my boat, once again, and told me to swim. you reason  love is not a singular ocean to fare but a continuum of waves for which one decides to swim with, or against. ::: when we meet a friend with acceptance, a curtain drops from the brow of the mind, past the theater of the heart, to reveal the gemstone of the soul. ::: be aware, they call it the "House of Cards"; thousands of meek, thinly cards support the base, and with each consecutive level, the cards become thicker, sturdier, heavier. for atop the roof, are the heaviest and thickest cards of them all. be aware, this House of Cards was built on the assumption of there being a strength in numbers; it was not assumed there could be a bravery to fold. ::: not a space for you and i, this is a space for we. ::: i see before me a tempered

why does love disparage me still? in my feeble attempts to unveil more truths possessed to its name, love contends to make yet another mockery of one of its children. my ego---lapsed from the embrace of its being. why does love disparage me still? ::: the young girl who is Dawn, she holds in her bosom the stillness of Night and the light of Hope's infantile fortune. ::: i cannot think how helpless i am in my defense against this moment... the waiter is whistling to himself in this diner, and i am hopeless against deafening his song; the moment takes me along the folds of his tongue with what carries across his lips. so suddenly, i have returned to the present; it recognizes me like an old friend. ::: amid the ceaseless flexing and partitioning of spacetime, i was approached by a star. this star held in her face the violence of the Big Bang, and the serenity of illuminated resilience. long ago did she escape the safe asylum of the nebula to bare witness to the debauchery of the univ

dark, crimson roses speak to me. clandestine with their whispering words. conspiring thieves attempting to swindle precious rubies. their thorns coil around my ears bleeding a barbed-wire pain with their whispering words--- they tell me--- "The cemetery is paradise. Let's take a walk." is there a Universe or namely God that can come between the stem and the thorn of the rose? ::: a heart of resiliency is the offspring of the actions and sustainment of hope. ::: there was an old man who they called the Quarter Man. he lived a modest, quiet life in a small farm house on the outskirts of town. he was not a religious man, nor was he particularly spiritual, but people admired him. he was a wise man. he carried with him, a quarter, everywhere he went. people in the town would often seek his advice or came to him for temporary refuge. most of them would come to him with afflictions of the mind--- delusions, fears, worries, grievances, and so on. each time, he would take a quarte

the heart points in the direction that seeks it. ::: has life turned your soul to granite? with every two efforts forward, you find three enemies have set you back? tell me, are you your only helper? you might argue you have  help, but often there is a lack of allowance to be  helped; a kite cannot fly against the wind; for Pete's sake, let out your line, and allow yourself to be lifted and carried with  the wind! watch your soul erode to the weightlessness of the clouds. ::: we tend to fear our story untold, so we attempt to write the next chapter. the amount of confidence possessed for the character of ourselves in the future is--- inflated, ineffectual. oftentimes, it is our inner pages the must turn first...

you impart wisdom, clues. sprinklings of serendipity. tumultuous seas to fare. stones of enlightenment that await a step; you are my destiny. ::: when do we decide to stop hiding? when do we unfold our petals into the light of another? must there first be an exchange of trust? could it be the solidification of loyalty? might it just be intuition? or is it a simple yearning to be understood? all of us---starved for one to read the anthology of our lives and not walk away... the common plea for the recognition that our story is worth telling. ::: how long will you carry your yesterdays? how often will you plant your tomorrows? how far will you live away from the present? how soon will you allow today to bring you home? ::: the harmony of the human spirit left when we intellectualized the whole of the self is more "easily" comprehensible when partitioned.