This is not the end, this is now.
A discord struck by a room of honed swords
their calloused dispositions and raised brows
theatrics to hide the malice
they knew the rest of us abhorred.
An invisible card made noose somehow
break the vow and shatter the glass palace.
This is not the end. This is now.
Father
He loved me with an ironic heart
such emotions you could never see
but for what its worth it did its part
He loved me.
Nothing you would ever find on a marque
more a thing felt in the time apart
a gift bestowed on the absentee
Hidden in wisdom he would impart
infused within our morning coffee
buried in machines I could not start
he loved me.
Return to the Earth
The throm of the bell’s toll calls all souls home
an iron melody to draw us out
lay low the day that brought us to such doubts
When we’ve reached bitter end of this tome
and the waters of life have met with drought
the throm of the bell’s toll calls all souls home
an iron melody to draw us out
No matter how many miles we may roam
or to what causes we may feel devout
there is always the same end to our route
The throm of the bell’s toll calls all souls home
an iron melody to draw us out
lay low the day that brought us to such doubts.
Cough
All of us stand lined up in position
stripped and bare like a vacant apartment
cupped hands hiding bits in flesh compartments
as if modesty makes the patrician
but really shame is more the condition
as if we are defined by our garments
without them we are just naked parchments
awaiting some others inked ambition.
Dialogue
We talk to ourselves with fists
a pugilist of reason
faced against years of abuse
the ebb and flow of emotional seasons
Only reason knows when to quit
but abuse will never stop
unloading blow after blow
to make sure no one else lives on top
Anything for that title
we have absently supplied
trading any confidence
for whatever drama we’ve cooked up inside.
With your value undefined
transactional praise given
where else could you we ever turn?
Unconceited, to the fights we are driven.
We can but hope that we win,
our critical self will fall
our ego rise the victor
but victory grants an albatross for us all
Our ego must be tempered
our abuse must die in shame,
either way our value breaks,
time and again it works exactly the same.
Without honesty we lose
the audience inside us
is only there for the show
ring the bell, choose yourself – the rest are treasonous.
Orange
Peel
Burst
Citrus – flesh – ripped
the gnashing of teeth
pistons of sinew and pulp
thrust against the gums
they speak loudly of the burning sun
Stifled by a crumbling damn of cotton
fire not tamed
but embraced
made temperate
the fruits of violence
and the seeds of gluttony
surge forth to their end.
The Wind Whispers Dissent
A broken rock split by time // Aeons spent apart
The world moves on between them // smoothing out the flaws
Their soft round edges betray // hostile origins
Never to embrace again // but better for it
Clockwork
The hands reaching for places they should not
feeling what is well and the gaps between
while the gears stutter over echoed thoughts
drawing out the whirring sounds long and obscene
a betrayal of the bright golden sheen
and the expertly crafted mechanics;
a token of wit and genius pristine
with disjointed and broken organics.
They keep winding, but no one sets the time
Polish and shine but no one climbs inside
as if admitting damage is the crime
and thus the past is where the now resides,
the future an unspoken thing implied
while savage moments spin along unchecked
and give cause for our fictions to divide
until at last ourselves we will dissect.
Ephemeral
The sounds of running
a clatter sprinkled with laughter
I will forget this.
Foundations
The floor boards are too far apart
nailed down hastily
no set pattern or rhythm
to the spaces in between.
Nailed down hastily
we establish our ideals;
our sense of self,
no set pattern or rhythm
beyond that of the apple abandoning the tree
all progress complimentary.
To the spaces in between:
make room,
let the wild things grow.
Grow Gray With Me 