I know I shouldn’t love you
But I can’t help myself
Can’t bottle up my feelings
And put them on a shelf
Where they will dormant, quietly
Lie in their sweet repose
While I look on as silently
My life turns into prose

Drop after drop
Dripping and drooling
Spilling and spooling
Spirals and spires
Mud pits and mires
Cleaving and cloning
Drowning and droning
Hasting and heaving
Blessing, bereaving
Treading and trudging
Kneading and nudging

Then swiftly, a stop

A stillborn season is but a season still
What does it matter if it lasts a year
Or ends after a week at will?

And one that flounders is but a season too
Why should we harshly judge its trembling gait
Or gripe that no grapes grew?

Rather than blame the blight and slur the season
I offer thanks for life and reason

Another night has come, another day
Another season dawns
Well, come what may

Sleepless? Perhaps
But not without a dream
Things are not always
What they would seem

I’d rather this odd
Insomnia keep
Than lie in bed
With dreamless sleep

When I saw your brown leaves
On the sidewalk this morning
I was refreshed
At this mark
Of a nascent fall

When I heard morning mist
Like a cat creeping slowly
I sprang to life
At the sound
Of its gentle footfall

When I got home
For the first time in days
I was able to closely
Consider my face

It had grown weary
From sun’s stolid heat
But through your grace
I still walk on my feet

And my face is grown milder
Like the days of the season

Perhaps for this, too,
There’s a reason

We meet again on our old turf
Where we once used to rule the world
Just years ago, inseparable
Now each of us has gone our way

We have drifted, drifted apart

Our boyhood dreams of sun and surf
Have melted as our lives unfurled
The damage is irreparable
So why should I bother to stay?

My thoughts gave me a start

Tear down these idols
The soulless white ghosts
And never build other
Deplorable posts
Sooner or later
You’ll find them all flawed
If worship you must,
Why not worship God?

This morning your rain fell
On the parched soil of my soul
Its water filled up the cracks
And made the ground whole

Haunted by the phantom people
Walking round the empty street
The world that frolicked, gamboled, sauntered
Overnight has lost its beat 

Lackluster its former glory
Grown dim its once gilded sheen
Bleak, drab, joyless, long forgotten
Yesterday is but a dream

Yet outside the trees are budding
Grass is fresh, the air smells sweet
The world that slumbered, suffered, waited
Overnight has found its beat

Perhaps it’s true that guns don’t kill
Perhaps they only sow unbidden grief
And drill new holes to fill
With strength of character and will
Until our own hearts too grow still

Perhaps it’s true
But why then will
You send your soldiers off
With guns?

To kill.