Walking towards the music to the sounds of my despair,
If only I could better listen to the true rhythm that is there.
I dance solemnly without a partner,
To a march without a beat,
This chaotic twisting pattern has proved to be too much for my feet.
The pain that once was centered has traveled up and down my spine.
It has made me clumsy in my steps and foolish in my mind.
As I stumble out of these inconsistencies,
I hope to fall into my place.
But I only land inside a different song with a faster,
More painful pace.
© 2002 RB
Love is like the vowels of the alphabet,
It is what ties the world’s components together,
And without it there could be no words.
© 2002 RB
The past is a familiar juxtaposition of dreadful memories.
An existentialist’s nightmare is to not understand themself.
They do not comprehend what they have been through,
Fear to go back.
They no longer wish for death because they have already degraded to their minimal reality.
At the climax of depression they feel as though loneliness is enough to kill them.
They are disappointed by their inability to render reason –
Alone in a cave looking to the shadows to lead them to the light.
© 2002 RB
Here is to life.
There is still time to be proud to be alive.
Here is to time.
Somewhere in my mind I can find a place to hide;
a place where everything is fine.
Somewhere in my mind is a place where I can fly.
High up in the sky where everything is fine,
I will hide.
© 2013 RB
In late November a leaf falls from a tree and is swept by the wind. Although beautiful, in the grand scheme of life she is rather insignificant and much like the others who came before her; their fate to decompose and become a source of energy for those who follow. Although she is slightly wilted and rough around the edges, a passerby notices her and finds her both unique and beautiful, possessing a perfect medley of characteristics that could never be again. He picks her up and places her in his favored journal, where he cherishes her forever as his gift from the wind.
© 2000 RB