Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Friday, August 13, 2010


Where do we search for happiness? In the approval of others? In manuals written from the wrecks upon coral? Is it things? Or others? Or all?
Does it come from without or within? Can happiness be justified of itself regardless of ships tossed in the wake? For some, it's speed. For others, a slow waltz. Some procure while others shed in empty delight. The pond is only so big; perhaps tolerance is necessary.
if I watch a sunrise
from maiden sand
with knees abreast
in doubled rise
would I be one
with the sun?
the day?
or the sand?

can I be one with all
in harmony’s breath
with the burden of jealousy
riding squalls
of parched leather
as it whips the foam
of how dare you?

having known
the peak
of another’s dream
with my flag
waving trespass
in braggadocio,
can my footing
hold it’s place?
or merely know it’s turn?

is the next best thing,
to yesterdays mash
and tomorrow’s fairy tale
on a scarlet coloured

to know your place
and the place
within the space

to siphon your dreams
from the pollutions
of storied blends

and to accept
that no one
can be worst
or best
but simply unique.

maybe, is a
way to happiness