RICOCHET

Here I fly, hurtling my
body in space, void
in the expanse between
my origin and my destination
vibrating, spinning like
a top in frenzied motion
my pointed tip ready to
strike at any mass that
dare to stop my velocity
target at the distance not
respecting its name or
history, just my goal to
embed as flesh, wood, fabric
and wood crash as splinters
fly in all directions, maybe
drawing blood, steel cold heart, mine,
serving my purpose as a bullet aimed
for a kill.

WALKING IN THE FIELDS
(in the shrine of John Lennon)

A fitting tribute to fellow dreamer
murdered at the prime
of his life, yet the name
remains and continue to
inspire a multitude.

My heart goes to you
who I never really know
until lately, yet enthralled
me to think inward and
introspectively.

With my muse at my side
we are mute in silent
reflection, of your life and
the life awaiting us, as we walk
down our own strawberry fields.