The masks we wear, to us are given,
assigned to us before our cue.
The choice is ours to reveal or hide-
A grand charade with many a clue.

Would you be this or be you that;
Is it surfaced or is it hidden?
Not all secrets are lies or deceit,
Our view of others we must widen.

The genuine heart will itself reveal
Its spots or stripes are where they're at.
The lot of what we think we see,
provide but circumstantial caveat.

I don’t ask questions, who would I ask?
I know when catastrophe is coming.
And every event is a catastrophe, not a prophecy.
The air tells me. That taut silk, plays untuned.
No voice, no god, and no answers.

Your mind thrashes, you think too loud.
Meaning oozes from you, without purpose,
your odour sweet, entirely wasteful.
You build towers, then forget the corners.
That’s where I live, wait and watch.

Sitting, marveling under the "Hunters moon,"
knowing there is no end to time's passage...
From my rooftop I can see eternity,
as a night without cessation.
in my dead heart I carry
a faint echo of its last beat,
reverberating in my highly tuned ears
like the sharp pealing of a church bell.

We laughed long
and loudly when we did.
We cried few days
but loudly when we did.
The day came with
a somber note,
then all went silent.

You opened me up.
You gave me permission to feel emotions
in ways I had not
for so many years.
You gave me the options
to be happy,
to be sad,
to be whatever I want to feel.
You cannot imagine
the freedom it has given me.
I love watching sad movies
that make me cry,
but now I really, truly enjoy them.
You've given me the option
to have a decent nights sleep.
I'm absolutely obsessed about this.
I'll always be grateful for you
as a clinical hypnotherapist,

hapless indulgences
animated silences
quiver

hankered imagination
ambiguous synapses
quibble

each way you turn
each thought you churn
new lessons learn

potted flower plants
line your driveway
mind you don't crush them

Under a street lamp
within its sickly yellow glow...
she found me starving.
Looking deeply into
my famished eyes,
"I'll feed you." She said,
"In return, you must feed me...
what is it you're craving?"

And still his death haunts webbed wide world post American Civil War

Preface: On the evening of April 14, 1865, while attending a special performance of the comedy, "Our American Cousin," President Abraham Lincoln was shot.

President Abraham Lincoln died approximately nine hours after being shot at Ford's Theatre. The assassination occurred on the evening of April 14, 1865, and he was pronounced dead at 7:22 am on April 15, 1865.

I had a lifetime of enough.
I know this to be true.
We had enough together,
with Shaya, me and the kids.
We worked together.
We played together.
We even had problems together.
We muddled through
in the very best way possible.
We built our life together
in every way.

That was my previous version of enough.
That was then.
In the here and now,
in this moment in time,
my version of enough
still relies on me
leaning on the ones I love
and who love me.

She sat on the curb, where shadows creep,
A warm evening held the world in sleep.
Clear skies above, a starlit scene,
Each distant spark, so bright and keen.

She wished for wings, an angel's grace,
To guide her soul from this dark place.
Her only love, now lost and gone,
A car's cruel fate, at break of dawn,
Right on that spot, the pain took hold,
A story tragically untold.