Fate has healed what will's undone and crossed two hearts that passed.
Who were meant to be as one - now travel seperate paths.

Through nature, see a woman,
who has reached a time of worry,
that she’ll lose her chance at choosing
if she doesn’t hurry.

Stalked by the pounding, dropping seeds,
hurried forward by their noise,
for with each passing day may come
an undecided choice.

While some women nurture seedlings,
others let the cradle fall;
Time threatens us to choose an end
that doesn’t suit us all.

Must women, who forsake the one,
be haunted by the other?
Must those, who take a great career,
have less - not a mother?

Two paths, before each woman, lie,
and the choice is hers, they say;
But if she'll choose this over that,
regret will make her pay”.

Few consolations come for those,
in deciding what to choose.
In choosing both, she prostitutes,
in choosing one she’ll lose.

Though, neither path she opts to take,
does either end the greater.
Every human - every tree will fall,
sooner or later.

In birth and death, we lie the same,
What matters, a profession?
Should we leave a next of kin,
or petrified impression?

Carved through the boughs of history,
Ancient legacy descends,
From Centuries of upward growth,
come horizontal ends.

Waking from a comforting dream of Virginia
pulled under the blankets by a faint melody,
luring me away from a bright, southern day.

Paralyzed, lying awake in my dream,
with melting clowns grinning in the shadows.
Monster skins heaped in the dusky corner,
waiting to be hung properly, by size, in the morning.

The distant melody continues to play softly,
slowing in time, with the pulsing rhythm of life.

Sweet notes echoed in a two-story colonial dungeon.

The hallway bends around corners to listen
while the walls try to hold it from hearing
the siren’s gracefully unwinding music.

Undisturbed, unaware of my waking,
shapeless shadows on the stairs continue to climb.
The face at the window still stares.
Mischievous eyes peeping from the closet.

Gremlins shuffle under the island-bed,
anxiously waiting to grab an exposed arm or leg.

The porcelain ballerina twirls
in a curio filled with creatures,
each sleeping with silent music at its feet.

Her childlike pedestal melody
bringing me into this state from another.
I burst without forewarning
into their evening convocation.

All of the specters, caught of guard.

What fortune has fixed your face upon the wall
to be forever sullen.
Painted, paper eyes filled with pain.

I envy those sightless eyes; so unaware
that the tread of some tires
and footprints, cross your unseen heart.

A forging of woes, no real feelings at all.
A two-dimensional man,
with no trace of a thought or brain.

You would smile, could you know what pain you were spared.
For your destined misery
might have been as a man; not art.

Why does the clock of life still tick
Long after we wish to sleep?
We pray to God our souls to keep
but sleep through the night we'd pick.