Standing on a ledge ten stories up
wind rips at clothing & flesh,
a tiger's claws. Hair blown to hell.
None of it matters at all.
Nothing matters but the hundred feet below
& a tiny patch of concrete
soon to be filled with blood & brains &
the crushed shell of a depressed life.
One last look out, then down.
Thighs compress for launch:
a three second freefall into salvation.
A Poem to Honor St. Valentine
If youth could age's wisdom ken,
& age could know youth's fire again
or age could Old Time's hands turn back
T'would then be youth with time to spend
& wisdom's strengths on which to depend.
This said, t'is never just white or black
For youth doth all discretion lack
& age tho' willing & desirous to play
To youth's vitality must passion give way
& such a conflict therein lies
for age is by youth most oft despised
& youth by age oft seen to whine,
“please, won't you be my valentine?”
An Ice-Bound Heart
Encased in indifferent ice
glacial heart beats slowly, coolly
caring less about others' needs
than preserving spirit's isolation;
or, caught in ego's snares,
thinks only of itself.
What an isolated soul it is:
seeing only its reflection
frozen in winter's frosty panes.
Can nothing crack the ice,
penetrate to spirit's depth
melt glacial walls
& let uncorrupted love enter,
laughing with joy?
Can such a heart,
(frigid & safe behind
ever take pleasure
other than isolation's illusory dance?
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