I Want Answers


What happens when we die?
When the sun can’t wake us,
though it tries?

When the cold inside spreads,
and that odd expression
freezes on your face?

What happens then?
Is it the end? Finally free.
Or do I become we and fly

back to a bluer sky?
Not so heavy anymore.
Not so sure of the answers.

All the questions changed
in the blink of an eye
and a fixed gaze.


Hope is Still Keeping a Dream Journal


I wake, and I write, while my dreams are still solid,
Recording the mysteries locked in my mind:
Worlds within worlds, and alternative histories,
Characters stolen. I’m not sure what’s mine.

Scribbling madly to capture what’s fading.
Tendrils that linger tease what I’ve lost.
This dream engine revving, so loud in the darkness,
Now idles and sputters—no fuel, just exhaust.

Why dream of these places, these faces, these friendships?
Why notice small details that cannot be real?
I read, and I ponder. What lessons, I wonder,
Are hidden therein for my soul to reveal?

Perhaps I’ll find answers to all of life’s questions.
Perhaps I’ll find meaning or healing. In clues
Disguised as my demons in nightmarish scenes I’m
Still searching for self in illusory truths.