Glittering diamonds spark in a night sky,
Illuminating a world eons away.
A light traversing the vastness of space
To brighten the dark for a brief moment.

Glimmering past shines down with false beauty,
Inspiring a world to seek truth afar.
A mystery weaving through history
To entice the weary dreamers away.

Glistening tears fall unbidden and cold,
Inviting a world to question the present.
A present teetering on its axis
To crumble or rise above a dead past.

So it begins, the endgame.
A knight flees; a bishop quits.
The king absent; the queen unknown.
The pawns scramble aimlessly.

Maneuver the pieces to no avail—
Witness the decimated board.
Oh, if the pawns only knew—
The futility of their actions!

A crown falls; the revolution begins.
The pawns seek to overthrow
The tyrant, the unseen hand.
Dust off your hands—game over!

Would you like to restart?

A foggy dawn rife with mystery:
Cold dampness clinging to the skin,
Beads of dew dotting the lifeless cars,
Muffled breathing in the heavy mist.

Sun hides behind a leaden gray sky
That crackles with impending storm.
The streets beckon.
Footsteps echo across the concrete.

From out of the dim shadows—
A voice, crystallized and sharp,
Words swallowed by the timely thunder.
Quicksilver lightning blinds the darkness.

Rivers cascade earthward;
A sonic clap jolts a car to life.
The clamor competes with thunder.
A stream of red washes away clean.

Abating storm purifies the morning.
The night passes like smoke.
Life relentlessly marches.
Death awaits behind.

Tea leaves spinning inside a cup,
Swirling, dancing, painting a portrait—
A normal morning: quiet and serene,
Before the hustle begins.

Rinse and repeat; the leaves change—
The dance remains the same.
A normal morning: calm and peaceful;
The twirling leaves paint a different…
                                                                     picture.

A murky vision of time unknown,
A normal morning: erased and unwanted.
Take the tranquility and smash the cup.
The seeping leaves spell a new beginning.

There was a question once that used to haunt me.
I can no longer remember it.
What does that say about me?
Is time such a great healer? Or is it a destroyer?
Memory fails unless you are machine, and even then…
Hardware crashes; memory is overwritten, corrupted.

We stand in the middle of a field of wheat.
Golden, crisp sun rays heap down upon our upturned faces.
Bathe in the sunlight; breathe the dry summery air.
Cicadas drone in the backlit horizon, splashed in red and yellow.
There was a memory here that I cannot recall.
All I remember are the sounds and the smells.
Sensations!
Like the charcoal burning, a smoky and warm scent.
The sizzling of meat and oil blending in harmony.
The dog barking as he scrambles for leftovers.
A baby’s happy squeals and her mother’s delightful laugh.
Who were these people? Did I know them?
Or was I a bystander.
A witness to a portrait of life.

Sometimes there is a woman in my dreams.
Raven hair spun in midnight curls, her hands—
They reach; they stretch, tapered fingers shaking
I think she was trying to touch me.
Then she disappears and I wake.

What’s in a name when the mind inevitably crumbles?
You cannot remember it; why should others remember it?
Useless pride in the face of an anonymous reflection.
Should I cry? Should I laugh?

Blood splatters against the wall.
I nearly slip as I enter the room.
A woman with raven hair sits at the center, hands tied.
Tears fall from her…
Her hands shake with coiled tension, stretching, stretching.
A metallic stench floods, the radio counts down.
Tinny voice, imagine a toothpaste ad smile.
A car screeches to a halt outside, disgruntled honks ensuing.
Hear the gagged cries from the woman with raven hair,
Her face streaked with tears, red nose from crying, her…
I look away.
A false scene, but who really knows anymore.

One life, a million choices, a million identities.
I could have been—
A doctor, a serial killer, a writer, an arsonist,
A husband, a rapist, a philosopher, a philistine…
A man. A woman.

Bright day.
I look at the wall and see a picture.
A woman with raven hair smiles happily,
Hands placed gently around the shoulders of a man.
Underneath is an inscription written in gentle loops,
“Who am I?”
The mirror shows me an unfamiliar reflection.
Several seconds hesitance, a second glance to the picture,
Her blue eyes dance, and the man beside her stares at me—
Peacefully.
“That is me,” I say.

Funny how one letter can change
                                                             the entire meaning of a word.
I entrust you with my heart, my lies, my life.
Encrust you with the weightless gravity
                                                             of my soul.

Same old music every day,
Talking about Vietnam and I picture—
Forrest Gump yelling, “Lieutenant Dan!”
While Jimi rips into that guitar.

Hotel California beckons me daily:
“This could be heaven or this could be hell.”
Hearing the same screeching solos and crooning voices,
I can safely say:

This is hell.

Constant