Don't think someone can't make a comeback.
On death's brink a miracle 
Can sway destiny's balance.
Lands devoured by massive waves 
Resurface in glorious fate,
And we who cried may too be saved.

Mortals don't know who gets saved.
A pendulum meets its comeback
And we call it fate,
But actually it's a miracle. 
I smile at him and he waves;
She laughs with us and life feels balance.

Tears are included in the balance,
Totems I wish I'd saved
Now buried in the waves
Of decades' desert comeback.
All at once it's a miracle,
Across thousands of years it's fate.

Laugh at yourself Nick, for fate
Is a rationalization of balance;
The workings of a miracle,
And sadly those who aren't saved
In slaughter rule games with no comeback,
Alike they crash on illusive waves.

As a gentle brushstroke's waves
I try to bend beside my fate,
Which has included a prior comeback,
From close-to-death restored to balance.
If even I could be saved,
There's no unbelievable miracle.

Love is the greatest miracle
Among the many makers of waves;
It shines its special light, which is saved
Until a heart designs its own fate.
The paradigm of balance
Provides for many a comeback.

The jewel of the comeback miracle
Doesn't require balance on waves:
We can't know our fate is not to be saved. 

Is it about satisfaction
After swimming through my sweat,
Self-demanding worldview works
To validate what I think is my nature?
Through self-reflection I may learn,
But it's put into practice only with others.

The intrinsic terror of others
That supports self-satisfaction–
Secret and smug. I must break to learn
Any real value of sweat.
The soul is always outside its nature
But clings to whatever works.

A petty problem that works 
Itself out with some effort from others.
What a superficial nature
Inspected for fleeting satisfaction.
Am I afraid to break a sweat;
Then nothing more should you have to learn.

I'll always be afraid to learn
The true futility of my works;
The utter impotence of my sweat;
The subpar product I offer to others;
I wish to present to your satisfaction
Through the simple machine of my nature.

Apart from cities, apart from nature,
This modern habit I've come to learn,
Perversely absorbed in the satisfaction
Of looks and show and mirrorworks,
Has me perturbed by potential others;
And I deserve to sweat.

Deserving or not, I'll continue to sweat
And fret over my foolish nature;
Craving esteem from others
To hide how poorly I learn;
Hoping to be engaged in works
That someday lead to satisfaction.

Let satisfaction be measured in sweat.
My works will have no effect on nature.
I can learn, but am I closer to others?

What's an ineffable feeling,
Since it can never be in a poem;
What's concrete in happiness
With an ever-changing I
Is temporary; identify
With a question. Who can answer?

I wonder if there can be an answer
To sculpt the phenomena of feeling
From a doubt to what we identify.
The fellowship of an errant poem,
The spirit of its making, and I
Quest to define happiness.

There was a horse named Happiness.
I suppose that's the only answer
One's arms could fit around, but I
Can't shake into that vibing feeling
That conjures joy in an evening's poem,
Needing no land to identify.

If only I could identify
Trees better, then happiness
Could form a chain of songs, a poem
That could operate as answer
Aroused to existence by a vagrant feeling;
Ever insularly I.

My little spies that hide in, I
Struggle here to identify
Whether as art or blood, a feeling
Stripped of senses, have happiness
As their doorman's secret answer
When he recites his half of the poem.

As the structure, or lack thereof, in a poem,
Life is freely constrained by I-
Attachments, -desires, an I-dealt answer
Of an other to identify.
My self-contentment-happiness
Ponders the mirror's estranged feeling.

Feeling my way inside a poem,
The happiness in crying I
Identify as some kind of answer.

An hour away from one more hour away
From freedom, when the melancholy gray
Will surreptitiously become serene
As though our autumn traveled back to green
To grant a weary head a respite soft
While zephyrs bear their leisure up, aloft.

The songbirds' twittering outside, aloft
On waves unheard by one who works away
Their Sunday afternoon partake in soft
Imaginary ballads over gray 
Delays, or so they feel; like Time's gone green
With jealousy to lend to states serene.

Though Time is changeless to the true serene,
To harbor this one's soul would float aloft,
Be big enough to then contain the green
Outside from which it feels so far away;
To pacify the soul, then all the gray
Of concrete as of clouds would feel as soft.

The hours continue to expire, a soft,
Inviting bed on which to lay serene
And careless waits. The schedule on the gray
Old page fulfilled and folded, sent aloft
Transformed into an airplane, flies away
And bucks before descending on the green.

One nearly sees the day in all its green
Excitement, like a beautiful dress soft
And elegant. If one could go away
With her forever, could enjoy serene, 
Unlabored moments that are held aloft
Above necessity ignoring gray

Reality, who wouldn't trade the gray
To go eternally with lovely green?
What offering would one not hold aloft
Exclaiming, Here! if one were granted soft
Sensation in exchange? Alas, serene
Experience could carry one away.

Well, finally that time has slipped away,
The golden day reclines to tender gray.
Fatigue gives way or comes to feel serene
As one imagines lush and downy green
That soon their head will rest upon, as soft
As earlier thoughts they had held aloft.

The gray of labor wends its way to soft
Green pleasures in due time. To glean serene
Composure one might fly aloft, away.

In lethargy I turn my head toward
The corner of the room, the dry remains,
The shriveled carcass of the roach nearby,
And sigh for energy that never was.
The carpet holds the choking, scattered light;
The coffee table buried under ash.

And now, the fuel all burned, there's only ash
Addressed to time itself; the chair toward
The sill sits vacant in the shafts of light.
And though some portion of my mind remains
Inside my torpid self, what really was
Was held within the galaxy nearby.

A spirit hovered in the beams nearby,
The motes of dust descended to the ash
And mixed in grays like lovers' hair. What was
It that you told me when you turned toward
The door? That only happenstance remains
That somehow renders all decisions light. 

The heaviness of being in a light
Malaised, although akin to those nearby,
Is that when others move it still remains
In yesterday's interrogating ash.
Inside itself, the soul contorts toward
A feedback loop: not what it is but was.

The testament of Earth without one was
Cicadas whitening the lower light
Of evening. Stirring on the couch toward
The open door, the pen has slept nearby
Among receipts and splintered stems and ash;
Perhaps a greener world there yet remains.

The agency of effort still remains
The jewel of human life. Among what was
The generations now reduced to ash
Is all the richness of the purest light;
Millennia now past are still nearby,
The same bright star as us they turned toward.

Remains of oeuvres derelict in light;
Ah, that was when the future was nearby:
A present not of ash to turn toward.

In you my wanting love finds its encircling
Desire, and blissfully requests the tether
Be ever tighter, you be ever closer.
However I must always fail to render
Whatever the elusive touch expanding
An individual within another.

You crave the novelty that keeps another
Obscure experience in the encircling, 
Encroaching days from you, a bore expanding
Throughout your life, a modern serfdom's tether.
I know the craftsman's poverty will render 
His dreams a fleeting fantasy; no closer.

The intimate monotony is closer
To death; the Silents' span from one another
Is further far than voices that must render
Immeasurable distances encircling
Creation's whole. The pauper's life's a tether
It orbits with the world around expanding.

The passing days that find your doubt expanding
Are huddled ever colder, ever closer
Together; and domestic life the tether
Does not permit your projects. So another
Ennui consumes you, on and on, encircling
The tight demands of human life we render.

My ignorant heart weeps, it cannot render
The means that you require; there's no expanding
Garage or atelier I have, in which, encircling
Our home from inside comes to be much closer
Than all the rest of it. The dismal tether
Reality insists on is another.

Although you fear it will be just another
Abstraction to approximately render
Those gross machines, I say to grasp the tether;
For if you quit you'll be adrift, expanding
So far away from what you were, no closer
To being happy, lassitude encircling.

I pray the tether, clutching now, expanding
May render all the distance from you closer
With one another in an art encircling.