Paint myself a stone.
Equipped to roam aesthetic empire.
I walk the street,
Peeling up the corners of posters
for those who reach toward victory over death,
to see the stone beneath.
The pedestrians beside me sulk in rain
so eternally present,
it's pulsing collisions with the pavement
have drummed it's echoes into the soundtrack.
I watch the posters bleed.
A warning of their shared fate with the stone.
Canaries painted up with the brightest feathers.
Monuments like gleaming limestone pyramids.
But we won't remember the feathers as bright.
We'll remember the colors bled out, when they're bled out.
The paint on our pantheon will wash to white marble.
And they'll re-remember it as white marble.
They'll re-remember the lustrous white
limestone as dirt and sand,
when its dirt and sand.
Our history will be rewritten, as its remembered.
I haven't posted much, so I decided to put this up before I edited it all into rhyme. This is a small excerpt of a larger thread of thought I plan on continuing to write about.
We've been given the antennae,
to alert the nearest node in the wave,
with just a calorie of effort.
That's the gift that gives us leverage.
Lifting up to surf the edge,
the valleys fold into the blaze.
A simple word can move the sled,
as time eclipses our transgression
We could travel peaks and valleys
to conclusion for forever,
never once aligning neatly
(*** - for - tat)
with our impressions,
We'd soon subside to find
a signal blinking in the night,
to heave it's burden on our tides,
and help to push us through the next one.
Remember that the signals always there.
It's always pulsing in the echoes.
Surfing waves beneath our vision.
Just remember we can lift it.
When you need it sound a siren.
Float the message to the surface.
All the lessons here can serve us
in a quest to make a difference.
I'm not as good as my brother.
I hurt him, and it hurts me.
I hardly remember, but I didn't feel bad.
I remember never thinking about it,
until I didn't see him anymore.
Then it hit me.
I hit him.
He never hit me.
That hurt me.
Rap at those enraptured under fears of the bacterial,
as children try discerning ethereal from material.
Drowning in the oceans of history, since repeating
these anachronisms trumpeted a fracture fed imperial.
Curse the brittle bones encroaching faster by the minute,
while the sinners broaching laughter couch a ghost within a cynic.
Living flesh against a ghost.
Spoken word against it's host
Who's the zombie here,
between a thread of hope and varicose?
Who's to know the line approached?
Serve the rabble in our throats?
Turn the table in our notes.
Learn the fables from the jokes.
Ghosts are just as dead as zombies.
Life is balance.
"The thing about sht, is it rolls down hill"
My grandfather told me that.
He was a chemist.
"I know about some sht," he said.
"You get sht on by the people above you,
and you sht on the people below."
"Some may let sht slide,
some can't let sht go."
But you never sht on someone beside you.
That's how you make sht grow.
I don't really know how to tag this, because I'm not even sure who would be interested in searching for it. Please consider sharing my sh_t on these fine interwebs.