Choice at Midnight

 The witching hour,

A time of infinite possibilities.

Midnight is what I want it to be,

Sometimes magical, other times evil.

But the times of evilness are of my own making,

Mine alone.

It is my free choice, I can drift and float in the essence of magical wonder or

Chain myself in the darkness of a black soul.

Both exist in abundance

In the witching hour and I decide which to feed.

The ability and freedom to choose is a grave responsibility,

Frightening in its implications.

There is no one else here,

But they are all watching

Which choice will I make?

Witch choice will make me?


It is a freedom of heart, 

A freedom of soul, and

A freedom of sadness.

A sadness for what it wasn’t,

But it was real in its own way.

A  way that only he and I could have chosen.

Unique to and of itself and the only way it could have been.

It was not like any other, not normal in any sense of the word.

A mockery of love and trust and

Short lived, like all the others before and those yet to come.

But it was our way, a way that refused to give up,

Refused to see the truth,

Refused to accept the inevitable,

And repeatedly refused the freedom it deserved.

So now, it has become another time and just another freedom waiting for relief in the shadows.

Another mockery of the truth and another love in vain.



Plans in Silence


I can’t make it stop.

It won’t go away.

It stays and steeps

And hides behind the other.

It plans in silence

Until the silence can no longer contain its need and then…

Then it becomes too much.

It takes over, controls, sucks me back down and makes the need too much to take.

I know I give it too much power,

But how can I not.

It is what it is,

What it wants to be.

My opinion doesn’t matter, it never has.

I can’t stop it, I don’t know how.

I can’t learn the language.

Sunday Evenings (re-post from 7-9-17)


There comes a soft sadness with

Sunday evenings.


A time of day that remains empty unless full,

Lonely unless shared.


One week’s ending is

Another’s beginning.


Just as his absence is just another ending

And his staying away just another beginning.


My lonely heart aches and

Forgotten tears fall in silence as


My memories of him are left to collect dust in the corner,

Their silence speaking volumes.


No one else cares,

No one else remembers, and still,

The soft sadness of Sunday afternoon silence

Continues without end.

Maybe I Don’t Want to Know

There is a voice inside,

A tiny one that speaks to me in the seconds before night turns to day,

Those hard seconds before truth and light floods out the darkness.

The voice is soft and lonely. I can never hear what it is saying.

And all too soon its time is up, the sun rises, and the seconds and the voice are lost in the light.

Maybe tomorrow it will speak up, maybe tomorrow I will hear it clearly and finally know.

Maybe I don’t want to know,

Maybe, maybe …

Always Broken

There comes a time for change,

A leave it all behind kind of change,

A back-lit stage leaving of sorts.

An abandoning of soul, but

With a reservation in eternity.

Only the collective experience of two remains in

A lost place, a place hidden in time.

Where The ticking has stopped, daylight has faded to black,

Pictures have come and gone and

All is left behind, but never forgotten.

So the story continues.  The players change but in the background, heart and hurt remain the same.

Same feelings in different colors, awash with love,

But always broken.


Ever Changing

December snow still remains,

Its essence uncovered by the spring melt.

A leftover from the beginning of the season,

It holds on, clutching the earth with icy fingers.

What was a soft powdery snow is now compressed with the weight of winter

Into hard, cold, sharp ice crystals.

Wanting to melt, it looks forward to returning to the earth to begin the cycle again.

It won’t be gone long as it will be back as summer rain and autumn frost.

Ever changing yet always remaining the same.


The Right Choice

The well is dry,

My heart is empty,

The cycle is complete.

Nothing left to do but begin again and fill the well,

Stoke the fires of my soul, and

Let its smoke rise and season my heart.

My heart is well seasoned as this is not its first round.

Time and time again it has been smoked with sorrow.

So, it will either become soft and sweet from the fragrant wood chips

Or hard and tough from the endless heat.

The choice is mine, but am I strong enough to make the right choice?

Only time will tell…