The tramp trembled to look through light
a fast fight with the eyes
against the now nebulous night
filling white wounds like flies.
And the noise! It just kept coming
a deep drumming down beat
to hide the sense of succumbing
in a sweet thrumming treat
ears decisively devour
till it sours and spoils
into something dark and dower
in late hours tired toil.
“Could it be that damn devils drink?”
the tramp thinks through the shakes
light and sound beating him to brink
both synced to bend and break.
Thousands of meters a second
the void beckons
between stars, amongst the serene
this bold machine
surpassed the initial errand
into legend
becoming more than was destined
a symbol of humanity
through all of their insanity;
the void beckons this bold machine into legend.
Cold walls make emptiness hollow
a word becomes a paragraph
but the silence is often worse;
that soft, sobered condemnation.
It grows on you like wilted vines
masking mortar and stoic stones
with a web that pulls at the bones
and antagonizes the spine
into emergency room lines.
‘Twas silence that broke Apollo
and surely I too will follow
beneath all this desolation
with my own frigid narration;
cold walls make emptiness hollow
but they fit the mood of the thing.
So I sit, intensely alone
processing all that I was shown
wearing tragedy like a ring;
the whole of my mind in a sling
thoughts circled like an epitaph
rubbed raw in stone on my behalf.
‘Ouroboros,’ the term scoured
when spoken at the right hour
a word becomes a paragraph.
Poisonous prose sinking inside
deep within the ardent soil
that place where thoughts oft wont to roil
and become greater than they should
louder than the self ever could
spitting out erratic free verse
without pause or time to rehearse
and asking, “repeat after me,”
so you spew disheveled debris…
but the silence is often worse.
A void mirrored is oppressive
a wave that splits the earth and sky
sent upon us to purify
turning the peaceful aggressive
the charitable, possessive.
Nothing is more than stagnation.
It’s more than obliteration.
It is the ego sacrificed
sold out for a zero-sum price
that soft, sobered condemnation.
There between the stars
are lights from afar
stars themselves
blackened by distance
dulled by time
and lost to naivety.
A certain level of corruption
foreshadows their revelation
some darkness within
siphoned from the void without
to leave these distant galaxies gasping for air
with us greedily grasping at their corpses
and calling it power.
The audacity.
A corpse can’t smell a corpse through its fetid remains.
The air conditioner sounds are raging
orchestrated Freon and mechanics
but the notes fall on deaf ears, just staging
to support a troupe of thoughts in panic
but their choreography is manic.
All the actors have forgotten their lines
they walk the stage like a field of land mines
switchblade feet stabbing at the wooden planks
too focused to recognize the call signs
catching angry vegetables with a “thanks”
[The pylon switches hands, and is risen high upon the transition, I feel that there are eyes upon me, and there are many. Voices amongst the crowd whisper awed phrases and sounds of mirth, save one. Shouting I hear, ‘shoot; shoot him now!’, and I feel the tears of all those I loved enter inside me…]
The sun is setting
long shadows down empty halls
all the doors are closed.
Green grass overgrown
lifeless leaves lounging about
a rusted rake reclined
Motes of dust falling
through soft light from streaked glass
curtains drawn and tied
A nail for hanging
white lace over furniture
they remain unused
What hands have built and maintained
now lie empty and lifeless.
The mountain exposed
bleeds the rain in tears
slowly a river forms.
The sky reflected
carried above as below
wind and water break
Green leaves shimmering
holding tightly to branches
while time pulls them free
Dragonflies prancing
will find no rest in the breeze
they find each other
The sun weighs heavy
the evening lies far away.
Look off into the stoic mountains
the stubborn, biting and cold mountains
There they’ve stood for centuries unmoved
as if born already old mountains
Cutting through the landscape like trauma
the earth exposed by these bold mountains
history stretched past the horizon
tales of violence that molds mountains
that humbled all life to fire and ash.
Let the next species behold mountains
ours spent their lives trying to break them
but only aeons can fold mountains.
When her eyes light up like fire
it warms me to the core
to see her mind contract and expand
embracing all that’s in store.
To find and explore new thoughts
that she wants to understand
to give more than she ever got
with an energy that will never tire.
If you ever met her before
she’s likely left you inspired
with her offer of a helping hand-
a trait I’ve always admired.
She’ll feed you the food off her plate
and give you advice to contemplate
she retains all the lessons she was taught
and is the first to suit up as your mascot
A master of wit and satire
because laughter is one of her few desires
I couldn’t ask for anything more
the person she is I truly adore.
What fortune to live a life with her in it!
That brilliant, brave and beautiful misfit.
Grow Gray With Me 