I can’t hold it in,
What turbulence has been
In its tornado passion,
An edict that calls for its abolition.

Because we have all
Watched the joy before the fall,
The phantom shades
As down her soul cascades.

We all wear our theater masks,
Under which our real selves bask
In darkness, for it will perish,
Though it will be cherished.

(But…The Lord is thy shepherd,
Thy shall not be in want…)



Evergreen

Deep in the forests beyond civilization, where life continues in a slow, measure pace, there was a town simply known as Adams. Its people were few, and knew little of the world, save for one man from the far-off cities and capitals of which little was heard.
He accepted the name “Robin” and was a reserved, bookish man in his graying years. The kind of person who would sit and contemplate the Spring rains or the dieing Western Sun, absorbed in his wonder.
The place where he spent his silent afternoons and cool mornings was in his library, which made up more than half of his humble home. All sides of the room were covered in books, of all shades and type. The ancient man would roll his ladder to high shelves and take down dusty volumes with golden letters still winking at you slowly upon a hard-wood desk that formed the room’s epicenter, and the red velvet chair would be drawn up. For hours Robin would read and live the memory, stuff away in its musty time capsule.
And so it went for many quiet years…







(This is the first installment, I have much more to release.)