There is a cypher.

Every time I think about the way the wind chases the clouds across the skies-
I remember that I dreamt I could leave this earth, taking wings like the eagle
and fly high out into the blue, flying under the sun beyond the cares of the day
beyond the reasons, the wherefores and the why's.

Once I wanted to know the reasons for the existence of my feelings
the memories that should have been there in the places between the past-
the moments when I wanted what little happiness I could have to last
the choices I made as if destiny had some sway- in the way that the
game was to be played, another roll and I would like the die to be recast.
like this was all a hand of cards, ante up before the shark folded
before there was another round of bets or double dealing.

Once I thought that I knew so many things to be real, to be true
now I only hear the echoes of my folly, the understanding that all
that somehow I was owed another chance in the race, like it was all
some merry little romp, a idiotic chase around a nursery rhyme
now after I find nothing at the end of the mulberry bush
now that I have found that it is all old and nothing is new
I feel to soft fall of disappointment like the drips of the paint
from my artist's brush red falling down amongst my blue.

Everytime I think about the way the sun shines out into the sky
I dream of eagles, and the silence of their flight, high above the earth
soaring out into the wide open spaces between the regrets that I feel
the places that I always assumed to be so very real- I find that I
am willing to give it all one more try.

There is an answer in every word and every line
there is a reason that I have said what is written here
like a key that opens this door to all I would hold dear
find the cypher, it's there for you to define, like a puzzle
out of place, out of time, this is the poem, this is the rhyme.

Nostalgia

                                                       

Somewhere in a dream, I hear the guitar strum like the thrum of my breaths as I stand

here on the path in the woods. I grin at the bleak surroundings seeing the unseen joke that clears like a break in the mists between the trunks- I understand that I have been here before, a split in the direction that I am going- do I go the way I should and not look back at my regrets and the other things that my soul reaches up from the shallows of my memory grasping at the feathery ghostly wings that flutter out beyond this darkness and the power of my wording sings itself around like the blankets of mists, do I stand here a lonely man or can I resist?

Somewhere there is a child crying with all his might, the fright in his wails mask that his tears are of anger rather than the pain that he must one day bear witness to as he see himself in others and then the desperation becomes so great that he finds that all his decisions have led him back again to his mistakes. Am I still standing here alone in between the cords that pour from the players' strings before the image repeats and I see that things that I would have once called the wings and somewhere out among the ferns I hear her rasping voice as the shares the wisdom that evades in the words that she sings.

What is love and nostalgia but the longing for moments like these that tug at my mind

like willow the wisps to tempt me and then to tease

then they wisps away out into the coming darkness like fireflies darting in scattered ironies

as you please, does it feed upon my own doubts or will I admit that in my ignorance of these ideas that fill the spaces in between the lines of text that I find myself compelled to type that there is more than this shadowy world in these my remembered woods

I can remember something better

and I should.

The wetness on my cheeks reminds me that I can still hear the riffs of the thrumming

of the guitar 

that I would swear was just around that bend in the road, that turn in my path, will it last until I can gaze upon this thing I would call peace

Things to do when everything you have known is broken

Falling through my memories, I remember the times that should have faded
I long for the solitude that comes from distinct ideas of self-denial that this never happened 
that this not the way that my parents told me it should have happened since
I have no reliable memory or that I remember it differently so that the truth is gone, gone, gone
away; that I have misspent my days on the wasteland that has been always thus, a disinterested yet plaintive kind of needless honesty.
Time is like a dried up river because the waters that should have flowed there were dammed up to avoid the pains that tears at my misconceptions- that all was a kind of stupid ignorant bliss that I would miss, that I want to miss. That I did somehow live through though now I can only wish that I had forgotten where and when it happened like the blown out windows in an empty house that is a lone specter on the horizon of my dreams, nightmarish in the stark betrayal of secrets that I was told were not to be retold or shared. That there were things I should have dared to believe since all around me those that should have cared did not believe nor did they want to understand because at the end of the day we are all scared. We are all just a little scared.
I am the snowflake that melts in the heat of the smiles and those people we assume are normal that I cannot associate with my fate is not my own nor is it under the controls that I want to believe I will be in command of like my rage that should have faded away like the lies that I am not writing upon this my sacred page, Will I ever be old enough to understand what the feeling was like, such as this truth that comes with pain, things I have learned from my past, will it come again- this gentle fail of the April rains?
This gentle passing of the April rains.
Leaving only puddles and not the presence of darkness like the stains on a canvas that are more like the tears that I have felt amongst all the days of anguish against the anger and the hands and the names that are slung backward and forward as all those that I wanted to understand will simply turn away from my reprimands and make the demand that I leave this all alone because I am cutting this too close, too close to the bone, cutting it down to the bone.
I want to run, I want to scream I want to find the music that will close the gap in all my fears that have followed me, through this the tragedy I never knew would return after all these years.
Will I ever find the peace that I could have known after all these years?
I want to run, I wish I could fly away out into the brilliant sunlight that must fill someone else's skies away from the stories we tell ourselves that were just another way to white wash away all our lies, so I repeat them over and over again, just give it a chance, just one more try- maybe this time i can really make a good case, just another way to deny that life has been more than just a cliché, that there is something more here than just this tarnished token of the thing I can do when everything I know has been broken.