Veranda

Take One...
Step One...
We Fly onto Our Greed
Greeds of Avarice
Greeds of Time
Do you see The Veranda
Across the blue?
Alligators seal the lips
Upon the red sand

Mind Dwells
Head Swells

And end In-spells

Do We Start Again?

--

Universal Emotional Distress

Transpiring events flowing all about
All whilst the hands of a clock shift into positions of that never stay of singularity
And as the universe continues its expansion,
I have never felt smaller.
Existence can be the greatest gift man can posses,
Nevertheless, it also has the reputation for isolation
Curse for my mind
Cure for yours.

Cordova
Near the grove of the sand

And between the crevice of the city

Lies a nominal patch of land

With no welcoming committee

Cordova be its name

And emptiness its profession

No person to ever rise to fame

Not to mention the lack of procession

In the humid temperament of the day

And the bitter cold of night

No person can say

That they notice another in sight

Standing quietly in the bend

This community is the child

Made from suburbias mend

It goes in the dictionary, opposite of wild

And yet, even through the silence

There lies something more

Unexplainable by the hand of science

Something deep within its core

A peace, one could say

Sanctimony and accord

Nay, trouble does not see the day

Leaving the city of stillness nay ignored

Perhaps this unmoving villa

Knows something they dont

Perhaps the metropolis of gorillas

Could learn something; But, they wont.

--

Message in a Bottle

To the curious reader of this message,

Firstly, I must thank you for the opportunity to catch your attention. In the world that we all live in and share
today, the sheer noise of it all can distract us from such insignificant, yet powerful beauties like messages in
bottles. But, nay, that is not important. What is truly important is is the bottle itself.

Why? Whenever the hopeful messenger slings an encasement of glass into the vastness of the ocean, he
must instill his faith, not only in the bottle, but in Neptune to safely guide our epistle through the waves of
the seas, the churning of the rivers, the torrent of the streams, and into the calmness of a loch. From there,
our message may make it into the hands and eyes of an inquisitive reader. That is what I hope for. I long for
my certitude in the waters of our planet to go unbetrayed, and if human eyes prey upon the words of this
letter on this day, then all is well. However, if the only thing that meets with said words are the opaque walls
of its glassy prison, then I must find the fiber in my being to reassure my faith in the clockwork of the waters
and the Moon.

They say that writing messages in bottles is a sport for the foolish. "Who," they ask, "in the right mind would
scribe letters to people that they will never meet and can never write back?" They see people such as myself
only as stooges of Men who would spend their time writing to the Unknown. But, while these ornery and self-
proclaimed "significant" men and women focus their time on what they have come to know, us stooges delve
ourselves into the mystery and enchantment of the Unknown. There lies so much for us to understand, an
infinite number of things that we can never comprehend; why should anyone ever come to the conclusion
that they know enough about life? Am I a fool to imagine and wonder if my words may invoke new
knowledge upon another living soul? If this be the case, then I will accept the notorious title of King of Fools
with open arms.

They can say what they will, for it will never shake my spirit. And if these words do fall upon human eyes on
this day and at this point in time, then the all-knowing have once again proven to lack true wisdom.
Furthermore, I pray that you return the favor I have given and that you may instill your faith in the waters
for me.
 --
Death is quiet,
Holding stake on the throes that follow us.
Dawning to the night,
Swallowing
Striking the bones of significance,
When no words hold weight.
A haze of wrathful determination among the stillness,
Darkening the swell
No voids are known
Only appear in conditions
Unbeknownst to the mass
Of those who stray
Little talk
Little return
Again quiet,
Manifest on the unending of consequence
Of choice to none
Quiet.