Why do we keep adding question marks to everything?

I see a train in the distance
down the winding rails
The steam emanates
from old oak trees
Somewhere the rain decides to fall
 in a quiet lost place
My young life was a fading number
on the last page where the verse is read backwards
and the moths decide to join in
How tall are the mountains, how slick are the banks
where the moss overgrown smells like strange cabbage!
During the rain a mother sings a love song
to her children
and the tall shadows lean in
the wheat glowing under the silver moon
a broken window reveals a skeleton key
on a dust covered desk
And you reach in
The scent of leaves mixed with dirt and rain
Restless spirits dragging old chains
and the black and white photo on the wall of nothing
in particular above the scorched fireplace
this heap of life
burning beneath the dim stars
in a mottled whimper

Untitled

The lamplight illuminates a dark room
A stolen picture is recovered from a shipwreck
At the entrance of a cave countless seagulls flutter
A lake of mirror is the fountain of youth
Empty souls inhabit its mountains after twilight
Empty visions
After the last hour that is a white rose

One can not fully ascertain the unknown
But the real illusion is quite opaque.
Shall we understand ourselves better now?

The final tragedy comes by newsletter
The headline reads:
"Small child swept away by sea"
And the young child is you or I
Lost in an enigmatic swirl of an ancient vigor.

Arc of the Dream World

Mind is not matter. It consists of solliloquys and magistrates. Fine tuned, it shall step aside in order to serve the vast domain of otherspace. In the longing hours of dreams, mass becomes frigid.  Smoke is the essence of the trembling spirit - the twilight hour of the eye suspended.  What the eye sees is not there. We are not here, for here demarcates the situation of energy at zero flux. Visions of suns descending into fiery lakes, demons and hell hounds, otherworldly fantasies, sex with robots on distant planets, all things actualized at the whimsy of a sudden thought. For centuries soldiers suffered at the blows of each others lost dreams. We have come here to give them back, to return them like a wish granted.  Where the moon lies underneath the eyelids, where the graves of children spring open and skeletons dance alongside hospital beds. One can hear the howl of hungry wolves at the right hour, and always is the right hour. How can there be any other way? You conceal your love in prideful moments. You've followed the rules that never existed except within the sub-fantasy of your least favorite fantasy. And you erected monuments to celebrate the damned.

Hyper-reality precedes the thunder. The barometric pressure seeks relief. For too long the fertile soil has been left unattended. At the risk of sounding unemotional, let us demand that all words that fit the crime shall deserve their fitful punishment. Silence to the least conductive element! We call upon the vagabonds of the world to raise their staffs and begin their march.

Precision is an instrument of cruelty. One can never be precise while staring through infinity's crooked window. And yet infinity is left perfectly open, endlessly pouring itself, in some cases like a waterfall against a damn.

A butterfly comes to rest seeking refuge in the pages of a simple story that will never be written, at least not in blood and stone, as the lamps run dim and the thunder begins to explode. Pain is your worst modesty.  Let us endure the light together at the dawn that always dreams.

There is a tangible heartache to the world
There is pain that seeks to obscure love
Where over the quiet hills it sleeps
Like a baby
And the watch towers are dark
Even as the suns burns incessantly
Like a candle at both ends
Each day is a footstep left
Climbing through a riddle back to yourself
A swan that recalls beauty in the stillness
Of water that is the mirror containing the universe
How many countless things have we imagined
How many seasons have we endured
Where love is like a discrete rumor
I find comfort in the knowledge of birds
And the hidden rebellion of trees
Who stand up for themselves
Nature is sure in its majesty
But how did we so easily forget
How do we remember that to be is to love
Or to love is to be

Listen to the loud bells in the night.
A heart plays its melody,
a swan song of youth
The leaves cling to their branches,
each one, like a note.
As the rain falls
stolen voices lie in wait.
The dust of vanished heroes
have dissolved.
"We are the last tribe" it says,
unremarkably.
Fortune serves the haunted
- he who has lost his own words.

Eyes

I keep losing my eyes
somewhere on the floor
and you keep stepping on them
knocking them further and
further away
as my vision becomes
shorter and shorter sighted
until the inexplicable paradox
is reached and I am
viewing you love from
the burning envolope you
have sealed them in