Sunday Blues (poem)

Every high brings dread:

the impending lows approach.

For every extraordinary day,

there are a hundred ordinary ones

living a routine I never wanted,

but needed to survive.

Poetry can dream and promise,

but what power does it have

to change the life of a fool

so in love with his dreams

he forgets how to live?

Not much, I bet.

Where is the magic in every day?

Trapped somewhere beneath my skin,

is this all my fault?

Is exuberance a choice,

or thrust upon the willing,

or a lie I tell myself?

-Zero

break's over (poem)

the whispering of leaves on a cool summer day

memories so buried the dirt is familiar

have i been here before

or was it a scene from a movie?

but i'm here now, in this fragment,

a child lost among adults

time to get back to work

break's over, young man

the moment shifts but remains

as buckthorns slice my skin

the child plays in the woods

impervious to responsibility.

-Zero

The Mountains' Clouds (poem)

The clouds drifted over the mountains,

hiding their rounded tips in fluffy white

overlooking forests bordered by the sea,

a vast infinite expanse beyond the horizon.

In a little town by the water,

people scramble to prepare weddings, –

and funerals –

as the clouds pass indifferently above.

Their unseen eyes witness vastness,

under which we are but specks,

grains of sand on a vibrant desert,

leaves on a forest canopy.

When the clouds finally descend

in a flurry of water droplets,

they fall when and where they must,

regardless of the needs of the leaves.

-Zero