The intersection, polluted with yellow, artificial light

draws the flame from the starlit sky,

green, green, yellow.

A full moon, once the center of Man’s universe,

hangs meaninglessly above his

creation as

Man’s machine slows to a stop;

yellow, yellow, red.

As Man awaits the continuation of

his journey,

the hollow moon continues on its soul-search

across

the sky.

Greenery still grows,

ascending desire for its Creator

as its light for tomorrow invades the

stillness

of the night,

and Man waits;

red, red, red.

Man was once a boy who,

by the heavy hand of innocence

and wonder,

reached a hand of his own

further

and further

under the bed

where the Monsters lived.

Man is soon a man who,

conquered

and beaten

by the commands of maturity,

swiftly and neatly reduces his livelihood

and happiness

and purpose

into hardly anything meaningful at all.

Man smiles to himself

as he remembers how it felt to

reach a hand further

and further

into the unknown.

He moves the bed and uncovers

dust

and lint

and feels something.

He stops.

Man's face loses its vigor

as he buries his head in his hands.

The Monsters are nothing,

and Oh, what he would give to be afraid

of nothing again.

The motorist's foot twitches on

the brake,

for things such as this should not wait their turn,

green.

When the path of our lives collides with poetry, it's a crime not to explore it.

Poetry lies in the darkest junctures of the human experience; in the heaviest and lightest of our life-contract, and the finest string that ties the two together.

Why do I write?

I write because I explore. I explore the tensions between the human condition and the environment with which we coexist, with which we run the race. I write to slip a harmless needle into the vein of curiosity and adventure.

The questions that I digest by day are the same questions that keep me up at night. They are the same fleeting thoughts that return to nudge my resting mind back into its abstract and analytical state. If I'm lucky, my interpretation is coherent enough that I can put pen to paper.

When I write, when I tap into that vein; I am a particle in the current, a victim to its agenda; I wash up onshore of intellectual bliss, with a new lens through which I observe my world with more clarity than the previous.

And, all at once, the poem is gone as quickly as it arrived.