Poetry by Paul


When I'm gone, I remember all the turning trees and leaves.

So I stop there, and take a breath and feel the morning breeze.  

And I think about where I am today and who I want to be. 

So I can take the many winding steps to create a better me. 


Scorched Memory

When one chooses to close his eyes for the last time, and enters the realm unknown to all and feared by many, he does not depart for an extended period. He may exist always and forever through those whom he loved and those who loved him. 

The actions and words he produced will forever and always belong solely to him and credited to no other. For just because the container in which he lived no longer is present, his memory refuses to bid farewell to the world and persists to exist in the infinite positivity of the minds of whom he touched.

His palms lay across his chest as he is inserted into the earth on which he roamed but they extend outward to the beholder in a gesture of peace and love that pierces the mind like a dagger of conscious thought and perception. The mark that he who is buried leaves scorched into the psyche of his victims will never heal and will remain not as a symbol of pain and sorrow, but of joy and remembrance to the time he spent wandering, considering lessons untaught and theories unwritten.

Do not miss his physical presence, appreciate his soul. Do not miss his mind, for now he lives through you.  And through you he may never be forgotten. He has closed his eyes but through you he may see the light of life once again.