Little things.

It starts slow. 

Little things you forget to do. 

Little words you forget to say. 

Some thoughts die, some memories too 

Just little things. 

It’s a human condition. 

Let’s just attribute it to genes. 

It’s like waking up to life 

And forgetting all of sleep’s dreams. 

It’s a recurrence of the new,

It’s a letting go of the past;

It’s another one of life’s lessons:

All good things seldom last. 

Little things come in that are new:

A word of love, a laugh that rhymes,

A road that hasn’t been taken,

A blurring of drawn out lines. 

People talk of love and faith and hope;

But time corrodes even diamond rings;

And they lie forgotten in the universe,

Swept off in dust as little things,

Just little things. 

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Night

Oh, I cannot help that night has loved me

More so than any reality day brought;

For night has soothed my dreams and set me free

Of the insanity that life has sought.

The loneliness people gave is day born;

None of the hours of night has whipped my soul;

While day has taught me anguish and scorn,

Night vents sorrow and resurrects me whole. 

Sunlight reflects all the wrong in this life, 

I doubt not it has taught me well to learn;

But starlight held my futile dreams through strife,

And it taught me to soothe: I do not burn. 

I give my love through night, to night I turn;

Through day I may pass, for night I yet yearn. 

Scholar

The scent of intellect is cruel,
It disregards the shoulder of emotion,
The neck of subtlety,
And the breath that churns like waves of the ocean.

Its logic and reason are sharp cutting tools
That strip the covering off the breast;
It relies on no aspect of beauty,
Unless beauty passes some deductive test.

I am not quite certain of this scent
And its application on warm heart beats…
I cannot take pleasure in all that it wins over,
For I ache for all that it casually defeats.