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.
