Lonely places

belong to me—

a forgotten log bench

in the woods, on the left-side of a mountain

under turning red and yellow leaves.

I keep being reminded

of who I don’t want to be

the mountain is beautiful—it hides mysteries

We want our work to be recognized, like the mountain

but part of us

wants to keep our secrets

deep within.

It’s like the man you know

that only you know—or so you think

He keeps you alive

He is such a good thing

you want to share him

but to share him, is to adulterate his love for you

to share him, is to risk him being misunderstood

What is sacred, is so often only sacred to us

What has become sacred, carries no special significance to others

like a symbol of redemption

wore as jewelry.

Sometimes, I read sentences in a book

that are meant, only for me

but I know, they have been read, by thousands

if not millions.

There are the lines I write

for myself—

only a few lines, that speak to me

never to be shared.

People buy art, to show it off

I buy art

for me.

There is a world out there

that doesn’t want to understand

they think the ideas of the past belong to them.

7 billion on the planet

passing through

like ghosts

thinking, they’re special

I’ve been thinking… I don’t know anything.

Even in the height of my understanding

I can’t know people

because I don’t understand myself

the mountain is a mystery

it offends some, with its steepness, and briars, and rough rocks

and it waits for the man

to walk off the trail

to find

its hidden bench

on a popular hike.