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A Rose by Another Name
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In prose, I suppose and even rhymes 
words, mere words can cut at times.
Still I suppose, every word is a rose. 

At times in rhymes and sometimes prose,
though torn by thorns, I still suppose,
every word can be a rose.

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Flowers For the Dead
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I felt the change within my heart
when changes ripped the world apart.

The times are strange, some say deranged.
Some say every rule has changed.
Some make a stage of hate and rage
and smash against their self-made cage.
Some lose or win by selling sin
and some without are trapped within.
Some creep in cracks and hide their tracks.
Some die in suicide attacks.
If there's a hell it's just as well
the dead might know but never tell.


Aww the changes a death can bring.
Perspective changes everything.


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A Flower From The Blind 
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Beyond the curtains of this world,
beyond the final page;
do actors wait with baited breath?
Is all this world a stage?

Some say we all come back again
until we get it right.
I wish there was real proof for this
sweet comfort in the night.

Beyond the curtains would we see
an empty nothingness?
Or is it full of love and light?
All I can do is guess.

I'm finding now that mere words fail
in thinking of this night.
I'll try to let good cheer prevail
while walking in the light.

For one fleeting moment
I begin to understand.
The moment catches hold and leaves
a crumpled flower in my hand.

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