Midnight Muse

Mother’s Day

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Dear Mom,

For life’s ebb and flow, the sway would rock us to sleep.

The only way to refuse that sweet lullaby,

That comfortable caress, that false sense of idle,

Is the strong, solid, mortar, of that which can only be given.

Because of this gift we are able to form our own destiny.

Push forward when life’s cradle smothers with nonsense.

We can see the world beyond restriction,

And strive to conquer the words beyond.


No fear. No weakness. Just immovable strength.

From day one we were taught to love unconditionally,

Walk with purpose – with calloused passion and intent,

To give back what love has granted us and

Gift everything carefully placed in our toolbox.


Love…from day one, from a mother

Who saw no hate, no restraints, only massive potential

The moment our eyes met,

Proof that the stars are not only in the heavens above,

But passed through a generation with eyes as windows.

From day one, we knew no expiration of such devotion

And even past day’s end, we will continue on as tangible evidence

That our hearts radiate our mother

Like heat from a fire. The moment YOU held us,

Is the moment we knew we could hold an entire universe.


Your Son,


Midnight Muse

Impulsivity ~ Unlimited Opportunity


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‘Viscaya Museum and Gardens’ Miama, FL

If ever there was

Whatever I could be,

The illusion of choice

to wrap and comfort me.


Whatever I choose

the consequences – each unique

Casting shadows

Only to mimic what I seek.


I tear and gnaw

groping for opportunity

Vainly reaching for purchase,

Trembling to fail and be made a mockery.


Then I fade to mute,

Into a languid state

Frozen staring without intent

shackled by my choice, a limping gait.


Will I ever be free?

When can I just be me?

To live, breathe, exist just naturally?


I tuck myself into a disenchanted slumber

Believing another will never arrive

To awake and rub my eyes in disbelief,

Another shadow ready and alive.


The illusion is broken,

Choice no longer a hall of mirrors

The day will always cast another

There IS room for endless errors.


Midnight Muse

Pay the Toll

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[Wynwood Walls] Miami, FL

If you query the night’s resolve, it is darkness in absolution

None more quiet or still than the immobilizing isolation witnessed by a thousand flickers

The hustle of the day punctuated by the night in hushed bicker

Muting or even pausing calloused hands for a moment of contrition


“The deeds carried by my spirit are of selfish nature,

I carry on catering to the ultimate needs of my own being,

I may suffer and pander eternal, but I bare my teeth with clear seeing,

That I would rather burn by candlelight than shackle the day indentured”


As the night progresses still, I have surpassed and claimed master

Still against the spotlights, immovable to my own account

Burning desire holds me steadfast, patient to an unlimited amount

Trudging slowly throughout the day as my dreams at night replay faster and faster…


I am not afraid, I shall fear none

Not even in the absence of light shall steal the pain of discipline

Slave to my own ambition, never to give in

For my vessel is my own, not a duplicate, but one.

Midnight Muse

The 6-String Symphony

20181031 [Tribute to a brother beyond blood]

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The gauge of life often starts with song; parted by measures.

Every sheet to begin with a treble clef, however,

The instrument of choice, a reflection of its composer.

Now the tempo of life is unique to each user.


We often despair in defeat when a pluck is behind beat,

Or a tone towed by apprehension,

But the flow – always forward.

Sometimes we must repeat measures for effort and

Agonize through the same crescendos and decrescendos,

Teasing the climax only to suffer myopic tendencies.


Ceaseless triplets, 8-counts, 4-counts, eighth notes, and half steps,

All to condition and steel against what comes next.

All of those notes plucked, all of those measures rested,

And you have finally played through the repeat.

All that is left is to flip the page, only to discover a blank music sheet –

Free to fill because, never forget, YOU are its composer.


Life’s music will never be muted despite the blunt staccatos.

Your fingers may bleed and your hands will callous,

But courage isn’t the absence of fear, but rather in spite of it.

As long as you continue to play the next fret,

The end will never have to come.


May this instrument help serve you to shred through

Any darkness or doubt because like any composer;

He is NEVER without his orchestra.

Midnight Muse

What is LOVE?

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Austin, TX

Some say love is compassion, some say love is forgiving, love is kind and love is infinite. Others claim it brutality in the sense of sacrificing ones own values, integrity, conscience, and invaluable self-esteem – For no other reason than an action of unwarranted and undeserving gifting.

To the cold, love is an incalculable emotion that parts oceans in defiance to logic. A shade that blends rather than highlights. To the warm, love is the untapped strength capable of moving mountains. The superlative link between rhyme and reason, beyond the wrong or right.

But what is LOVE?

Love is without limitations. It is never idle, it never sits, it only understands. Never demanding a definite structure but yet seen as the tallest edifice, because it pains the inverse ephemeral, like the sun sacrificing night and the moon sacrificing the day. It is vast only because it must endure, it must reconcile that or this.

Any act of contrition would be redundant, an insult to its true cause. Rather, love is the decanted effervescence meant to be imbibed. It is the calloused passion beyond blistered fingers, beyond the overtaxed faculty of thought, transcending the need to be convinced – impervious against mutilation, and incapable of being bribed.

Love may slump in withered agony, but it never takes a knee or gives up. It is mother to nurture every idiosyncrasy, accepting nothing but its own existence as recompense. It is the father behind every handshake, every labor, every sweat, and every tear. Love may cut, bleed, and swear, but it is the pinnacle of acts corrupting dollars and cents.

Still yet, WHAT IS LOVE?

Love can be simple yet beyond visceral cognition. A subdued canvas poised to submit to delicate brush strokes or even a simple embrace that dissolves everything intangible and physical. It feeds without having to be fed, materializes without being convoked.

A silhouette of unwavering obstinate, breaching barren wastelands. A beacon permanently stamped on heavy clouds or a secret note on the breath of condensation. Enshrining bravery, honesty, commitment. It is a litmus test for the devoid and a barometer used against barons of precipitation.

Love can be…

The poetry we breathe. The music we see. The colors we inject. The textures we hear. Love is in everything we do.

So what is love?

Love is… you.

Midnight Muse

The Voracious Vagabond


Desire until your heart rubs raw.

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Photo Taken Wandering The Streets of Portland, OR

Passion until everything is calloused.

Forbid any doubt and ungrip any chains restricted to everything and anything.

You do not belong, you never have.

To fit in is to erase all personal legend leaving only a hollow shell.

You were meant to converse the world with endless wander.

Just because you are lost doesn’t mean where you want to be has disappeared, your journey is just to include the occasional absence of light.

Home will always be there with resolve well traveled.