And I will go in the way of the river,
Till I find my place of rest.
To the place that was made for me,
That which for me is the best.
I know not where the river will carry me,
Which twists and turns will surprise.
I only know of this moving water,
To the place I have yet to arrive.

The junk of love,
A notion perspiring.
Wanted by few,
Left all those desiring.
A torment unchecked,
By the few who flow with it.
Sweated out till you break,
Keeping the movement brewing.
This ***** love,
While one abates.
Another struggles to master its gates,
The end twiddling like thumbs.
Till the next thing arrives,
Breath kept in motion.
Don’t lose that drive,
So mend it or lose it.
Drive past,
Don’t abuse it.
This junk doesn’t last all the time,
No ***** will heal it.
Neither will those who appeal to it,
The wrong junk to have in your life.

Give me a moment and I will make a lifetime,
Give me a lifetime and I will make something beyond recognition.
Beyond recognition is a desire aflame,
Aflame, born of dreams forward.
Yet dreams do not push beyond their scope,
A recognition held back by reality.
But reality is a dream in wait to come true,
To come true and be reality.
So what do you wish?
What is your desired reality?
In truth, maybe not much,
In truth, maybe it is.
Only you can weave the dreams of wanted reality to form,
And then, only then, will you create it.

And so dear friends the time has come to pass,
Of things of life that never last.
This troubled feature of zombified mind corpses,
Full of distracting features.
Empty road courses,
Thousands upon thousands.
No end in sight,
The road of progress leaves either day or night.
So dear friends and lifes alters,
The door has come aclosed.
The days are long,
But time is shorter.
So live,
But don’t love wrong.

In this misty fog of yore,
To this life been given sore.
Nevermore in one’s own waking,
Tired eyes for the worlds own taking.
Vindictive numbers of judicial pasts,
Moving forward from what never lasts.
This word mistaking of points of view,
Can’t change another’s outlook.
Yet what can one do?
So bask in radiance of what you can,
For the hour of the end comes at everyones hand.
No life immeasurable when at small it stands,
When in this basking glow of forsaking.
Will you stand clear from the fog?
Or by its mist, be taken?

I am but a few words,
Mindful of manners and mayhem.
My dreams come in waves of plenty,
Yet I spare only a few.
I mumble and tumble over them,
They beg no quarter.
Yet wish to be heard,
I silence what wishes to speak.
Yet lives on only in single memory,
I dance around in cryptic self-wonder.
But must answer in plainish ways,
Is it the punishment of living onward?
Am I to be the self translator of self?
Cursing but not ending,
Living but not yet dead.
What possible way of misery is this?
What cantankerous absolute point of view is worth seeing first?
Am I the wild one?
Set forth to wander a desert made by others.
Perish the thought I survive someone else’s dream,
That I live the uncontrolled controlled.
What manner of mindset does the fool endure?
What crept, slithered, painstaking idea became my own?
My dream, is it?
My life, is it?
My sadness, my madness, the ups and downs, is it?
Who lives of me?
Who lives for me?
Who desires to see me and not demand compensation?
Does the wind blow in my favor?
This tossing and turning of mayhem and manner is outwardly atrocious,
It begs, it pleads, it demands as like a child.
Am I still?
By others do I mature or am I already?
Questions and personal answers,
But who’s right?
What desire of manner is of self or of others?
I ask and yet self reply,
I see yet seen only others self.
This is the madness of this world,
Am I of you or am I of me?

Emptiness,
A try to fill.
Fear,
A chance of courage.
Failing to prove against both,
This mountain unwilling to climb.
A crashed plane with no rescue,
Yet hope for change.
Is always on the morrow,
What then shall one prove?
Or should they end all with no try?
My dilemma,
My unending tumble.
Time to choose,
No longer to stumble.