Of life itself

We side step desire

like the adroit dancers

we once were

light-footed, thin-ankled

defying gravity

in our keening

and still

that furnace

despite our neglect

consuming itself

continues to blaze

waking us at night

when the house is full of memories

and cold corners are no solace anymore

we roam halls bareheaded

fleet of foot

dancing in our sleep

to the urging wick of desire

for there is no remorse for people like us

we live only because we are struck

by an unsteady hand

igniting emotions like

all unsaid things

thrown on restless bonfire

will cast illumination and spectacle

among bare branches of old trees

if we could put words to

why we’d flung our very lives away

just for one night together

we’d be pulled back from the brink

the edge of everything

where all who are struck, reach

naked in their disregard for sanity

only hoping

in this feeling

lies the very thimble

of life itself

Paris is for lovers

There are many kinds of travelers

one who promotes the art of transience

with ejubulent smiling photos atop picturesque vitas, repleat with apeing friends

sleeps undisturbed by change, in the marvel of perpetual motion

one who never travels

but hastens to add, everyone must

and enjoy it they should

for all they cannot understand, they bundle

in wistfulness and naivity

like a child imagining adulthood

the last traveler is uneasy

feeling a sorrow in changing places

the witness of other lives and roads

since earliest memory the yoke of

vacation was not to be appreciated but mourned

their comfort found in staying still

than the kalidoscope of others spin

demanding constancy and things, unable to be bequeathed

where disturbance comes, in the form of expectation

sorrow of coach stations and midway stops

grief striken as graves and road trips without gasoline

you are said to be fortunate, if you can travel often

the grateful traveler may forget

the gritty loneliness of their highway bed

never admitting they wished to return, even before they set off

belonging is a feeling, some will never attain

their search in crowds of strangers, leaves further lost than claimed

Yet no one

No one at all

Will ever admit

To being loathe to travel