A place unknown, to return again,
A criminal racked with guilt.
Shrouded in the light of sin,
His conscious stained with filth.
He wraps himself in linen hold,
He steals a loaf of bread.
The owner of the cloths gone cold,
And the baker's all but dead.
No cheating, nor chasing, nor any rigged racing
Can help a man's soul feel complete.
His feet may rest, but his mind still pacing
He ducks to an alley from street
He's had his fill of bread, but the outside worlds lacks depth
He finds a place to rest his head, decides to catch his breath
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC
I found a snake berry in the garden;
It tasted mild, sweeter in the garden.
It curled around augustine and bloomed in
the thickly weed-breaker of the garden.
I ate the snake berry as the warden of backyard play, augur of the garden.
The berry snake beckoned and beckoned
"Is the fruit mild, sweeter in the garden?"
It was, I said, sweeter in the garden
It tasted mild, sweeter in the garden.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
We are all racing birds;
we win just to be caged.
I don't know if you've heard,
but all the world's a stage.
I tread the rigid boards
and bend myself instead.
Another curtain call;
another ego fed.
The limelight comes and fades;
the sweat falls from my brow
now everybody cheers,
another perfect show.
You will never make it,
you know that this is true.
The flowers on this stage
will die along with you.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC
The sound of whistle
A rattle of gunfire
Dodging the shrapnel
Straight over the barbed wire
Heading towards the enemy, I hold my breath
Say a prayer, as we plunge into our death
Through the smoke, mud and lead
Our foe lies just ahead
Clasping my rifle tight
Their guns ablaze with spite
We get so close, yet still too far
With burst of fire I go down
No one near, I choke a cry
No one hears, my time is nigh
See my comrades falling down
In the shrill their voices drown
The wailing shells - our passing bells
Soon my friends we'll meet again
And so we die at Passchendaele
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 1:54 PM UTC
When the sun is low
and the breeze has gone
We will meet again
to sing our last refrain
Oh the never ending cold
you must have grown so old
But now the breeze has gone
and, too, the sun is low
Wrap around my sheets of wind
Set alight the self within
Strike out on my endless skin
I'll still be here when you rescind
Have you now sailed your fill
And tasted salt again?
Now the breeze has failed against my will
So I sing the last refrain
Shelter from my sheets of wind
Stow away the self within
Whisper now to spite the storm
Poison me forever more
Play a game you cannot win
I'll be here when you begin
Make a life that's warm and dry
Never stop to wonder why
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC
Beyond the aching lapis fields,
Which causes tears from eyes to reel,
Lies in utter darkness
An orb burning in the starkness.
It burns a hue no coal could master, Polished in brilliant alabaster.
And as this lonely beast from heaven dangles,
By a single silken threaden tangle,
I snap its bare thread,
Without a solemn dread.
And I bring it close to my heart,
Swearing from it to never part.
Yet, once I bring my eyes to peer,
I find a lonely coal of woe and fear.
And now I let the wind the ashes take,
For now my heart does ever quake.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 1:50 PM UTC
Lo! Look soft, the nihilist
wakes in his meek abode.
Lo! Be wise, for he is not,
yet he perceives himself so.
He commands his person: "Rise!"
The spirit is his foe.
The spirit questions him: "Why?"
Yet his conscious does not know
The nihilist starts to brood:
"Why? Why can I not rise?"
The spirit laughs, unsubdued,
"I am not of your allies."
The nihilist waits awhile;
Paralyzed and juvenile.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC