Troy writes poetry.

All of the words, illustrations, photographs, and other works of art posted on this site are his, in as much as anything in this world is owned by anyone, which is to say they are not. Ownership is an myth. Attachment is a sickness. Ideas and works are illusions on temporary loan from the Universe.

In other words, feel free to use all of this.

An Ode to Arya

Arya, poor little Arya.
I can picture her still. Standing there. Alone
and bundled up, as if wearing a great white winter coat.
She was so sweet. So innocent. So cold. So stiff. So frozen.
Arya, poor little Arya.

It’s Been Hwil

A Space of Time. A beat.
And in that a BOOM! Creation. Cacophony. Life. Awareness. Me. You! US!

So little time left now. Who know how long?

Then gone. Dead. Decaying. If I’m lucky, tree food. If not, another round somewhere else. Samsara.

But right now. Right now! We’re here. Together. Each moment, new. Forever in finite.

And that’s the greatest thing.

Worthy of a poem for sure. Probably more…

Then I Met You

I fell in love once,
Many years ago,
And I never thought I should again.
I never thought I could again.
I never thought I would again.

Then I meet you.

Cotton of the Night

The cotton of the night
still holds the sweet perfume
of your tendril frame;
walking me gently,
back into a dream.