You will have been dead fifteen years tomorrow,
and yet not once have I visited your grave.
I was always busy; there was always time
to see you, to make amends. And yet, I feel
it's all a sham. I could make time, but I fear
the truth. It's easier to believe my lies.

If I went, I'd see your plot, see how you lie
untroubled, beneath the soil. Your tomorrows
ended many yesterdays ago. No fears
to face, no debts to pay. No decisions grave
to weigh your brow.  Not like your son.  How I feel
the heaviness of this life. There's too much time

and not enough. Lives end every day. It's time
to stop hiding from the pain. My future lies
along a path you've helped me walk. I can feel
your touch in everything I do. Tomorrow
is too late, sometimes. It shall not be graved
into history that I gave into fear.

For too long I feel I've lived a life of fear,
of caution, of safety, and, and yet such times
I had. Oh dad, you'd be turning in your grave
if you saw the choices that I made that lie
behind me. How I made it to tomorrow -
sometimes, I'll never know. When mom speaks, I feel

you then the most.  She calls you brave, and I feel
that's the man I wish to be. You conquered fear.
I think I shall not wait until tomorrow.
I'm twenty three. When's better than now, this time,
to go make idle boasts and tell boastful lies
with my father? He who loved me to his grave?

Death is final, but it need not be so grave
as to eclipse all the joy you made me feel.
So, this year, there will be flowers, which will lie
as testament to a man who lived sans fear.
And instead of death, I shall speak of a time,
years past, when you made me long for tomorrow.

As all around you, thunder crashes,
and jagged flashes expose the rain,
the walls begin to shake and moan and
the dream comes again to haunt your brain.

All alone in bed, your restless head,
tossing like a ship on violent seas,
sprays salty teardrops across the sheets,
the growing stains naught but wordless pleas.

Terror rises from night-blackened depths,
by nature's fury, drawn forth to feed,
come to wrap you in its spectral limbs,
so from sanity you can be freed.

Now forlorn within your troubled mind,
and marooned upon a mountain high,
you are confronted by a nightmare.
God it looms in size! Such depthless eyes!

Your eardrums shake from a ceaseless howl,
which blows apart the concealing clouds,
and your trembling limbs freeze, numb with awe,
for, too quickly now, its shape unshrouds.

Many jagged lines of iron mist
frame a frame cast from hell incarnate,
with spears of flesh and strobing colors,
its merest sight leaves you insensate.

Mismatched eyes see through your stammered lies,
and sweep away your poor deceptions,
while mighty jaws open far too wide,
and at last overwhelm your reason.

Resignation drags you from your feet,
and in heated gusts towards the thing,
your final thought as your vision fades
is that at least the dream is ending…



Outside a window, songbirds warble,
and morning light shines down once again,
but inside the chamber, silence reigns,
and an empty bed, all that remains.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
but I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

A trip's the thing to clear my mind,
just pack stuff up and go away,
the world will wait while I unwind,
unburdened by nature's display.
Past chuckling streams amidst the rocks,
'twixt trees entwined with mossy creep,
up rolling hills where eagles flock -
where you can hear the silence talk
in earthy tones to make one weep -
the woods are lovely, dark and deep.

That I could live my life out here,
far from all the complications,
where air is ever crisp and clear,
free from mankind's machinations.
I'd build a home to rest my head,
let peace like sun inside me seep,
grow strong and tall like men of old,
and witness mysteries, untold
to those who live their lives like sheep.
But I have promises to keep.

And so I must return to it,
to a life that is not living,
where all the day I stare and sit,
tasked with work that is mind-numbing.
I must come down from mountain high,
through the morass, to wade knee-deep,
that I may earn enough, whereby,
once again, I can say goodbye.
But I have coffee on to steep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Perhaps I won't! I won't go back -
they'll only wonder for awhile -
someone else can take up the slack,
and try and climb atop the pile.
I'll be content out here, alone,
my life no longer poor or cheap,
amongst the wilds, the grand unknown,
where I can follow my loadstone.
Now I have a new world to sweep,
And miles to go before I sleep.