There are nine horses in the meadow,
wildflowers and grass,
fate counts them one by one.

Empires of bees and frog dynasties disappear
as do cities of the dead. Destiny
rides them into wind and ashes.
Everything is ashes in this world and
the molten rock is filled with ceremony.

In the flat land (where flat people,
soak in skin),
three ride four horses.

Dusk still,
Sky red,
Blue shadows,
Touch flower beds,
Flickering flames,
Embers aglow,
Light up the dark,
Like the soul,

Silver clouds,
Soft and slight,
Moon bathes us,
In her light,
Stars wink,
You blush,
I smile,
Then flush,

Grass moist,
With dew,
But all I feel,
Is you,
Warm and humid,
Soft rose,
My darling’s mouth,
Beautiful to behold,

We tell ourselves stories
Of days that we are glad
Sad
Bad
Times that are hard
When with our bear hands
We scratch through rocks of insanity
Seeking out broken answers
To illuminate our puzzled existence
As the threshold into our souls
Are shut tight by the nightmares of our yesterdays
That comes to haunt our present selves
And threaten the tranquility of our tomorrows
As we dream bitter of the meadows
And the bliss waterfalls at the countryside.

Womb To Tomb

We were born naked kicking and screaming
Infinite potential personified and gleaming
Dragged into the iridescent light of a new day

Perfectly oblivious, fabulously ignorant
Unsullied by human intervention
Blissful sublime in our naivety

Held safe against your mother's breast
The womb was not yet vacated
The cord unbroken

School begins and the world rushes in
We are forever altered
Our senses assaulted by the reality of life