Everything
But you
Is an exercise
In fiction

As stories
Share their wisdom
Through our lives
Which see us drift

Apart
So fate may mask
What meaning
Keeps on bearing

Some truth
Just too elusive
For this path
We journey blind

Across
These lavish scripts
Like old words
Still bearing secrets

When tales
Of love forgotten
Are all lies
From here and now

Plotted
Though they miss
Special feelings
Growing wild

Within kingdoms
Begging interest
Losing passions
Out of fear

While employing
Empty themes
As new gods
Who sever purpose

Find their answers
Among leaders
Spilling dialogue
Without thought

Stealing scenes
At every chance
Proving morals
Cannot triumph

Over action
Gaining notice
Beyond subjects
Holding weight

Writing answers
You dismiss
Claiming context
Shows intention

During moments
Less objective
Like this faith
I didn’t plan

Speaking how
My aching need
For believing
Our existence

Isn’t aimless
But intended
Yet more random
Than we think.

– J. Pigno

I don’t think
God has a face
But perhaps
He’s a star
Within us

Collapsing fast
From illusion
Of the chaos
Tainting
Our souls

When entropy
Rules in favor
Like fate
That’s randomly
Ordered

Among these planets
Basing
Their gravities
Learned
On fear

Which assumes
No mind can think
Beyond
That burning
Center

Toward vastness
Deeply troubled
Inside
This sprawling
Doubt

Between old points
Where age
Is a death
All men
Will worship

Exploring space
Around them
For the sake
They may bend
Laws

So physics
Loses strength
If divinity
Yields
Its answers

Implying
Heaven’s waiting
At this edge
Of what
We know

Destroying
Time itself
Through that cross
Which burns
Eternal

By wormholes
Called awareness
Waking saints
From living
Hells.

– J. Pigno

White cats
Clawed at my feet
Where the landing
Fell abruptly
Atop what floor
Had shifted
Concealing stairs
Beneath

Breaking
Through each cage
Hissing loudly
While they lingered
Telling me
Our closest exit
Wasn’t meant
For such escape

As bookshelves
Shed their dust
Near windows
Cracked and beaming
With ivy laced
Around them
Over moldings
Chipped from age

In that attic
Never seen
Only known
By certain dreaming
During moments
Staring upwards
Wishing houses
Had more space

Like this garret
Much too vast
For explaining
Its existence
Which extends
Beyond forever
Making sense
Since castles float

When mansions
Within minds
Become levels
Just above us
Swearing God
Has hidden secrets
Among treasures
Stored away

High as hopes
We’d never seek
Staying grounded
Under pressures
Between hallways
Safely guarded
From these felines
Strangely mad

Wishing truths
Were screaming noise
Down the corridor
Unexpected
Was our passage
Toward some heaven
I had witnessed
On that trip.

– J. Pigno

I think I’ll go
To that place
Where there’s truth
In no one caring
At the feet
Of good intentions
When my worship
Starts as fear

Feeling anxious
While I bend
Out of reverence
For the desperate
Being victim
To what’s lonely
During moments
Lacking prayer

Finding quiet
Offers grace
If that silence
Means obsessing
Over passions
More than righteous
Like my anger
Lost on words

Through each mass
I often wait
Seeking guidance
Beyond gestures
Nodding heads
And bowing gently
Shaking hands
Which aren’t there

But admitting
Pain is worse
Since divinity
Long neglected
Preached forgiveness
To its servants
Without purpose
Even seen

Barely heard
Yet showing strength
Lifting spirits
By rejection
As I kneel
Toward fallen altars
Proving sadness
Has a church

Making failure
Disappear
With some fate
I’d not intended
Sitting idly
Near this window
Staring blindly
Seeking faith

Lost to God
Whose heart is rain
And His love
One final rainbow
Lasting briefly
During daylight
Covered softly
With new clouds

Still the promise
Unfulfilled
Till that lie
Becomes a purpose
Growing meaning
Within soil
Wasting fate
On better storms

Carrying answers
Best dismissed
Like my service
Insubstantial
Since compared
To other humans
Whose old meaning
Misses dreams.

– J. Pigno

Every blemish
In your mirror
Is evidence
Beauty dwindles
As result
From trading places
With the face
All yearn to sell

By consequence
Of death
And its judgments
Creeping slowly
Through that youth
We take for granted
Like our faith
Assumed to grow

If existence
Wasn’t vain
But less proud
Than narcissistic
Finding flaws
Are most attractive
When they nurture
Humble grace

Letting hairlines
Fallen gray
Peter out
To prove recession
Is that blessing
Stealing glamour
Aging boldly
Without fear

Telling highlights
Of their lives
Before turning
Faintly silver
Stalling fate
Just one more moment
Waiting staunchly
For this chance

Speaking volumes
Though they break
Seeing cracks
Form at these edges
Praying wrinkles
Aren’t sketches
Of each soul
Which harbors doubt

Trying hard
Appearing new
While inside
Such fissures thicken
Splitting widely
Tearing open
What old crevice
Lies beneath

Hiding hatred
Towards themselves
Which we call
Our fleeting image
On God’s Earth
Assumed as soil
Yet in truth
Is made of glass.

– J. Pigno

I envy
The purple flower
Hanging low
Upon your desk
With proof
Of wilted majesty
Being caught
In mid-day’s glow

As it mimics
Dazzling grace
Through a dim
Yet telling shimmer
Which speaks
Such hidden language
Atop those
Violet blooms

Conversing
Beyond sense
Through an image
Whispered softly
Across that room
Convincing
What nature says
Is best

Still beats
Within our midst
Like a heart
Whose pulse can linger
And lungs
Provide us color
From new radiance
Piercing glass

Riding
Passing breaths
Amid glitter
Dancing gently
Between words
We keep exchanging
Losing track
Of God so close

Where windows
Bring us faith
By these details
Often hidden
Long forgotten
Among blossoms
Gleaming shyly
Under sills.

– J. Pigno

There is no
Creative way
To express
What grief
I’m feeling

Since words
Are the most
Incapable
Means of conveying
Their loss

With breath
Like expended wind
In a futile
Gust
Called pretense

Pushing through lips
Uncertain
My stutter
Has meaning
At all

For I hesitate
Now
When believing
This spoken faith
Has purpose

Beyond what lies
Lay dormant
Beneath
That tongue
Unchecked

As an ignorant
Turn of speech
Where life
Itself
Finds silence

At the end
Of sentences
Willing
To determine fate
By verse

Writing dreams
Off need
From a passing
Urge
Left wasted

Dangerous
As it is
Excellent
For inspiring
Useless rage

If days
Are a debt
Repaid
But only served
While waiting

These hours
Becoming torture
Without
My pen
Which hurts.

– J. Pigno