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There are always possibilities;
the future is not set in stone;
what we see and what we find
is sometimes beyond what we have dreamed about
in our fantasies;
what we build can last and endure for thousands of years,
like the Colosseum in Rome.

People and structures cast shadows
when the light of the sun is shining behind them;
thoughts and ideas are expressed instantly
when there is a phenomenal desire to share them;
music and poetry is the natural art of the soul
made tangible to ever sense of perception;
emotions and feelings always find a way
to give you some much-needed inspiration redemption.

Hope never dies;
those who fall must always try to get back up;
it’s good to smile, it’s good to cry;
you have to start at the bottom
to fully-appreciate what it takes to rise to the top.

You are always someone’s idea of perfection;
someone will always look back at you
and think of you as a dream come true;
you will always be the drug of someone’s addiction;
someone will do anything, and they will go anywhere,
just so that they can be happy-
and the reason that they are happy
is because they are with you.

We all go through things that are personal to us;
we are all at times affected and afflicted by the fever
and the cure of life;
we all remember what we have lost,
but what is important to you and to everything
is the thing that you take with you to sleep every night.

When you are out in the open,
staring out to the sea,
looking up at the clear blue sky,
or watching nature close-up maintain its never-ending cycle,
that keeps going, and keeps turning, and spinning,
like a multi-coloured, deeply-ingrained, album of vinyl;
when there is a light behind you
in place of a light and a direction to guide you,
you can always know where you are
and what time of your life it is
by looking around you and seeing the shape of the shadows
besides you and coming from you,
like telling the time by a sun dial.



Moving on.
Putting the past behind me.
Thinking about the future.
No regrets.
Feeling hopeful.
Feeling human.

The bouquet of flowers is still in the hotel room,
where it will forever stay.
The moment we left it there and walked away,
what we had was gone, what we built,
and once were able to keep afloat
and sail the waves of uncertainty
was lost at sea-
even though there was a time for us both
that we looked at each other and said we were sure.
What we had was doomed to fail from the first minute,
and it instantly spiraled out of our control,
until we both knew our future together was uncertain.

Everything was good, until it wasn’t.
We could say anything to each other, until we couldn’t.
I never wanted it to end this way, ever-
not in my darkest and intense of nightmares;
I never wanted to feel such pain, ever-
not in the darkest hours of my despair.

This is my way of moving forward.
This is my way of stranding the bad memories that I have,
forgetting about them, leaving them, and sailing away.
This is my way of being rid of the poison in my heart,
and being cured.
This is my way of closing the door for the last time,
and leaving behind forever the forgotten bouquet.

This is a message for me-
past me, present me,
past you, present you-
to you, to me, to myself, for myself-
a little experiment in self-portrait poetry.

I have tried this before, but it didn’t really work;
however you know how forgetful I am, we are,
when it comes down to remembering what I have, we have,
written and where-
but I like to think of that part of me, of us,
as number 47 on a list of a thousand of my, of our,
quintessential and character-defining quirks.

It has always been a fantasy of mine
to meet a future version of myself, to meet you-
I am not entirely certain why
I have always been fascinated by stories of time-travel,
but I never thought for a second to actually give it a try-
poetically-speaking, of course-
but, then again, I suppose that is what I have been doing for years:
talking to myself, meeting myself, through my poetry,
through my feelings, through my memories-
learning about myself from the source.

I wonder who I fell in love with, who broke my heart,
I wonder if I ever met my muse;
I wonder if I, you, ever got used to getting old;
I wonder if the world is still learning to live with itself,
and whether there is something truly amazing, hopeful,
and life-changing to be reported on the news.
I wonder if I am still a poet, I wonder if I am still in love with writing-
I hope I am, I hope you are, because writing,
especially the poetry that we have written, means the world to us, to me:
every poem is like a new adventure into an imaginary space,
that always inspires us even more, and every meaning of every word
is thought-provoking and exciting.

If, and when, I, you, ever read this again,
think back to now, to this exact moment,
that you are, that I am, writing this,
and think of yourself, think of me-
because I am wondering about you, what you did, what I will do;
and, from time to time, I will read back what I have written
in this poem to you,
who, of course, will one day become the future Me.

When is an empty house not an empty house?
When it is filled with memories.
When you walk into a room
and the emotions, feelings, and love, for a moment in time
reform in your mind from every corner, like a scent on a breeze.

When is an empty house not an empty house?
When it is filled with music.
When the walls and the windows of your home
echo, reverberate, and bring to life the music of your mind and your heart
in time with every clock and accentuating every tick.

When is an empty house not an empty house?
When it is filled with light.
When the golden energy waves of the suns ocean
flood your home from every window and door;
or when a full-moon hovers above us
and welcomes in the change from day into night.

When is an empty house not an empty house?
When every step that we take up stairs, over floorboards,
into the recesses of our home, reminds us that it is alive,
moving, and talking to us all the time-
when even in an empty house we can feel an energy all around us,
as if stemming from an unseen dimension that exist to entwine.

When is an empty house not an empty house?
When you are in it.
When a house becomes your home,
and means more to you than a place that you choose to inhabit.

When is an empty house not an empty house?
When you stand in the living room of your home
and you say out-loud, but to no one in particular,
that this is the place you want to return to every night,
and perhaps may one day want to share with a spouse-
then you know, then you feel,
that this is not, that this has never been, that this will never be,
an empty house.


In the future I want to be dreaming of the past,
I want to be remembering the good times and the bad-
my muse’, my family, the friends that I have amassed.

In the future I want to be able to look back and see the cipher to my choices,
I want to be able to put a name to the face of my life’s impressions, echoes, and voices.

In the future I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror,
I want to be able to look into my own eyes, and ask myself:
did you grow beyond the confines of your garden,
or did you only blossom for a single season, and then you withered?

In the future I want to be on the crest of a wave of pure
and intoxicating inspiration,
I want to embrace my heroes, young and old- and make their influence the basis and the core of my life’s vocation.



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