I am restraining myself.
Tied the tiger within,
pulled forward the hooded
mask and await my revealing.

Though it be inches,
though it be seconds,
this inner face that
lies within will reveal
the beauty and horror
of self in due time.

Anticipation is not
found in revelation,
or analysis of my
feelings or my thoughts
but based solely in the
encountered moment
when his face appears
and the waiting ends...

and it is with
great expectation
I wait,
for I know you
will inspire -
cause me to concave
cause me to withdraw
cause me to delve
from the inner workings
of my secret self
so that I may
bring about words
that contemplates the nature
of our dynamic selves

Happy moments, praise God
Difficult moments, seek God
Quiet moments, worship God
Painful moments, trust God
Every moment, thank God.

battles rage as
Titans clash,
while universe
upon universe
observe through
lenses, the war
within, as
mind's eye
with analytical
swords, lash.

pour out to me your life
in threads, in folds;
this massive blanket that
pools about me and
spreads out
to the beyond,
to the great Horizon

I shall, as I walk
through these moments,
billow out your words,
wrap them about myself,
pick up a corner
and read as I
stray about this
canopy you've
created for this journey

I beg you --
let us pause
as I reflect on
the inner workings
of your voice

I walk corridors
of text each day
but they are artifacts
of their time;
but your text
inhales, breaths,
keeps space in
both your past
and present.

To me I begin
to see the body
of you emerge
in the hilly country
of your word...

hope comes on the
rays of sun
and the small chiming
sounds of voices
try as they may
to pull back Winter
and hail forth Spring

to regret any words
is to take back what
I am becoming...

for I am a
bolder in
constant motion
constant momentum
and I cannot
backup this
hill of life
but only roll
forward,
for there is this
thing called gravity
and it is life

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music... and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much as to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul."

~ Soren Kierkegaard

Each day -
an eternity -
for time is
measured
in short strides,
in long strides,
and yet
suddenly
we are
standing
on the footsteps
of tomorrow
and wonder
what happened
to eternity