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Poem

The point of no return could be global or individual 
but never is it in the middle. 

It is a horizon of dreams aloft in hope held by tentative
strands of rope that weaken and deny what hearts are
seeking.  It is love, stirred with hate that drips need to 
bleed us, heal us and force our tired cope.  It is a circle 
never ending, a line never bending, and it holds questions 
with no answers, like keys to kingdoms none can find to 
turn or master.

It is that door, the door, where dear ones come and go,
ones who carry joy, hold us, love us, then, in time
they lack reasons to feel or the want to know us, so, no, 
I mean, yes, it is not long-term, strongly rooted trust.
It is a strange, bewildering, momentous fuss that boils in 
us until we bubble up our filthiest cuss.

It is same attempts in a familiar game of strange
ranging from old to presentations tweaked as new
that leave us standing without scent of a clue.  It is 
the reason creating all things we do and the matter 
with our universal supply of glue.  It is your craziness 
fondling my insanity, too.

As a match, it does flame fan mankind’s fire to rise in 
heat stroked red curls ever higher.  It is the silence 
that secrets our desires and the stillness of hush-laced 
conspires.  It causes human hands failed attempts to grab 
sky-warm, star blankets, not to be human had.

It is a riddled fear maze forcing us to run, to race by men 
with aimed happy guns, to quick stride far from addicts 
selling sons and slowly consider embracing those we have 
shun as we forgive ourselves for all never seen done.
It is another day, and, say, someday it might not come.

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