Although I no longer live in California, the edges of my poetry are still of the beaches I once roamed in California. It moves through the trees so softly, following hidden pathways, it touches my faces so gently, it's like fingers running through my hair. As I stand, I waver, feeling that gentle breezes, voices begging for release, I am all that I can ever be, a true child of the wind, I would give up everything, to fly unfettered, unbound, free. The wind is my mentor, the sky is my plain, I lift my wings so happy, and fly away, away. I have, the fractured memory, the after taste, ash, because I will not reach my palm across a blazing bridge of skeleton, support, relentless with in it, you may resist this slow map of ambiguity.
Winds blow harsh, child born to sadness, seasoned by pain, mind turns to madness.
Time clangs away, heart initiates to melt, Life burdens on, grasping close the guilt. Grievous pain inspirits a broken soul, heed etches movement as memory grows cold. Pain motions moment from life to reprise, within the womb, need continues to grow, To manifest before the end of the play, like the madman, chasing his play. Into a truth, he cannot understand, answer more of earth, than man. Suspicion extends the reach of pain, future abyss that comforts the sane.