the pattern still

all day all night the swirling mass:
impinging, rushing, cuffing —
we can true love the pattern, and
the pattern still mean nothing

we bathe in insignificance
and dry with our endeavor;
a ritual we do with care
on tiles of forever

then look into our mirrors, thinking,
“this deserves attention” —
the images we learn to love
just past our comprehension

all day all night the colors change,
our joys mixed up in sadness,
and it is for our hearts to find
some meaning in

the madness

The Lonely Night

The lonely night is never done;
It stretches on, in endless wake –
And closes in with memories
And dreams, beneath a constant ache

To walk upon the haunted earth,
To lie upon a sleepless bed,
To hope for nothing but the dark,
And pray that slumber’s just ahead –

But restless, rising up to go,
To walk out towards the waxing light –
These barren trees, they know the dark,
They’ve wrestled with the lonely night

The day will come – it always has –
But eyes will not be there to see:
The night will claim its prize at last,
The pride in you
The hope in me

the night’s alive

the night’s alive, the city is aglow,
the crowds of joy assembling apace
as shapes and masses fill each bit of space
along the avenues of come and go

but one, a wanderer, can find no trace
of what the lights portend, no shining grace
that others, he can tell, both see and know:
the night’s alive, but he is barely so

On The Gradual

When dying on the gradual
From smoke and lack of sleep,
There’s many-colored visions and
A tendency to weep

Inside a frozen winter night
Within a summer day,
A habit of vicissitude
Can lead to thoughts astray

And mine are all in tangles now,
With purposes unfocused,
But what comes on the gradual
Is rarely even