how it comes so suddenly;
how it startles the heart;
how each one reminds you
of previous encounters,
holding the small of her back
as she heaves, the trial
breaking in sobs, dashes
and gut punches;
how it never resolves;
how it cradles every breath
when a memory inspires you;
how it is so final, so total,
so honest that you hate it
but understand it;
how it feels like a beginning
as well as an end,
a sentence with a period,
but closure only for a few words
and not the end of the book;
how sentimental and clichéd
it makes us all in the face of it
and how we all face it,
the chilling wind of it,
the brittleness of it:
Death.

horrors

to my horror
you have gone and left
whispers and petals
in tidy, little piles
for me to find years later,
when the ash of you
has become dirt,
and my voice, just an instrument
for your stories

Floating

the only thing that sounds good is sleep-- like waves crashing on my pillow, blocking out any other noise from my life. I can look forward to a different world, a different scene when sleep overtakes me-- there's nothing bigger or better. And the whole cast is there, waiting for me, and I can hug each one and pretend they still exist without melting into sugary puddles in my hands.

Toledo > Bucyrus

When she was mighty, arms outstretched acrossed the Maumee, I thought I knew her well--but I was broke and smartmouthed and failing part time and living out of a PT Cruiser full time. At least it was brief, before it got cold. And a friend saved me. Her arms, too, were outstretched, and she quoted the mantra, "You will do better in Toledo." My smartmouth was chapped and thirsty but words came easily then. Gratitude, too. I floated down the river--down down down to my hometown. That was before my father died, before every flower in my heart crackled and blew away. Arms were closed, then, around the Sandusky. And I didn't hear any more words. No thank-you notes floated down the river, just debris, ripped receipts, old magazines. My dad might hum something while cleaning up after other people's mistakes. But that was all.

Nebuchadnezzar

There, he stood—the golden head of an empire
that stretched across the horizon,
with the rivers of Babylon winding
between the fingers
of his iron fist.
His stone statue
made with many hands,
drew awe and jealousy.

But he could not understand
the day he found the statue crumbling,
its limbs turning to dust
before the many who adored him—
until Daniel spoke,
a captive voice,
the prophet of another kingdom.

And the king,
with all his gold and power,
saw only what he feared—
his reign becoming a fleeting spark
in the dark abyss of time.

He ordered his likeness, a new statue
of gold to be worshiped,
but the furnace blazed hotter
for those who refused to bow—
three men, unyielding, unafraid to burn—
their Faith the only fire
that did not consume them.

His pride could not be quenched by flames.
The king wandered,
cursed by his own greatness,
eating grass like cattle,
his mind lost to madness
as his empire,
so sure, so vast,
shuddered beneath
the weight of the Heavens.

One day, he and his followers realized
their error, their idolatry,
their betrayal of humanity—
a lesson, not a fable.