Tri-Poetry Collection; Soldiers of Foliage

Open-Air

Weeks of weak sleep tweak windows of the soul
How many sheeped sleepers does it take to make me whole
A fraction of the answers
In truth's tortured tenants lie
A quest to set me right again
Let me perch and let me fly
Let me work for what is mine
Let me search or let me die

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Masks of the Wood 

Orphan masks make meloncholy motions upon my wall
I have not worn these faces in many years

No need

The business man
An idle seat of paperwork and filing undone

Currency calls

The maniac
Scattered and mentally see-sawed
What is right and what is wrong

The philosopher
Wrong is right and right is wrong

I'm sure of it

Forever thinking further
Forever correct in a galaxy of uncertain relativity

These masks wear themselves
Rooting deeply in the soul
An unconciously planted seed
Your mind

 is our mother earth

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Willow

Worn is the willow tree
A frozen body
Sculpted by years of existence

upon a plane of soft earth
It's branches hang low
Weighed down by the sadness of fall
Winter
Summer
Spring
Emotionally weatherproof
My heart rests easy in the willow tree