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Arthur M Roach Jul 2020
You will sit and think or run and chase
A path you believe will quicken the pace
Of fulfillment grand, or to at least withstand
Times ebbing flow and recurring woe.
And rise and fall, contentment's sprawl;
The specks we pan the ground for.
And rise and fall, discomfort's drawl;
The eras we spend in wanting.

Some questions reign:
"What constants remain?"
And with the answer lies eternity.
It is the love of a strain that grounds the sane;
An enduring devotion, a lingering notion,
Detached from what others deem necessary.
Arthur M Roach Jul 2020
So leaves the conscious breath of day,
And with my dwindling mind power, I lay
And pray upon my awaited sleep
That it delivers me another life to keep.

Oh sleep, why don't you heed my call
To present me else with greater gall;
The life of one that springs in step
And looks back at all in a fond recall.
Arthur M Roach Jul 2020
Your skin and heart is with life asunder,
As cold as you had dreamt it.
All the sins you loved to plunder
Brought no more glee than death did.

Youth left your heart, poor in time
To show you how to grasp it.
You deemed it weak within its prime
So you scorn what were your best bits.

But busy a mind does not mean restful
And your work just stalled the war.
Besieged, you changed to vengeful
And chased your pleasure no more.

Now chase the bottle as not a tool
But a crutch with which to live on.
You live apart within your cesspool
With which you'll always cling on.

But came the day you sobered up
And saw the love you hated.
Mixed those pills with what was left
And soon, your name was dated.
Arthur M Roach Jun 2020
I love you my darling, you just know naught
Of how it is I intend to do so.
You may see the blanket of stars over your world
But may not feel their warmth.
Not yet.
Let your sufferance of words important
Splinter your bones until the frame of you
Is revealed.
Only then may you scrape dried paint
From your stained canvas
And make for an art more suited.
Arthur M Roach Jun 2020
You live and breathe the dead of night,
To fly through the world at bare.
No eyes to pry or fish to fry,
Just you and a spoilt mind fair.

For within your car, within your head
You are safest and in control.
You could go for miles or stop and trial
A world to be explored in whole.

But the peak of day sees people aflock
To tend to all you despise.
You don't wish to see the fear they breathe
And the intermission before their demise.

So you soothe your mind in tunes sublime
And breathe a cleanly night.
And look upon your all as fair and small
And mend that which broke when bright
Arthur M Roach Jun 2020
This house in all its glory,
This house in all its pride.
Manicured daily to tailored eyes;
In beauty and in size.

There was a love of look and want of heart;
Money was thrown at the hands
That would put this dream to start.

And so the space took on a form
Of design both great and bright.
And delighted were the owners,
Who wound their smiles tight.

Step through the heavy wooden door
To polished floors and pricey goods;
Marble, paintings, and some leather,
As all good houses should.

Visitors left the house in awe
Laced with envy diluted.
For such thought was poured into the house,
And how perfectly it suited.

But look no further than that, or see
In the livings, inconsistency.
Stay longer than a visitor should
And see what no others could.

This house devoid of humanity
Had no love to be known.
In all the workings of the look,
This house was not a home.
Arthur M Roach Jul 2019
He watches the rain that falls unwitting
Of the people who shall scatter before it.
And he sees the people who treat their minds
To whatever may repose it.
For he's met all kinds of shady folk
And the ones that live in kind.
He's seen the ails and woes of men
And seen the same men shine.

But he sees himself within their place
And he hopes his hopes benign.
For at this time he sees his place
As one he shall not resign.
For there is no pure or divine
Amongst our giant shuffle.
There is just intent and wants to vent
And wickedness sublime.

And so he hops from next to next,
Any distance short or far.
And sees the men who walk or rest
And those who cower before their mar.
But no image enough, he has found
To rest his weary self.
And so he'll walk and watch and search
For a nook to base himself.

— The End —