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More than Man Sep 2018
Beneath a Weeping Willow
Such Vines do not Twist,
Peer Out from the Shade!
Be Freed by It's Allure
Dampening the Earth It's cast Upon

There, In Broad Day
Dancing in the Streets
Cheering for Silence
All Books and Statues
and Sons, Fair Game

Fear Them you Cannot
The Eyes Do Not Spare
Distant Figures bob,
and Sway
and Twist to knots

Could be One's Eyes
Be It the Flowing Vines
Sure of Myself, or
More-so of the Willow's
Trickling Streams,
Hung with Care
Still, yet Overflowing

No, Eyes do not Betray!
The Mind cannot Return
and still Dance
For Too the heart,
Here, Trapping Water's reign
Set to Betray It's prison


Tomorrow, The Cleanup Comes
Brothers, We'll Hear Our names
And Rise from the Mud
By Design or by decision

Echoes, Sounds in Every Room
Shall Haunt us with The Present
Declaring All the While, "Better had they never learned,
Time is a Gift,      Until it Isn't"
More than Man Jul 2018
Everything, and everyone has a price; however, most bills are overdue. I have put myself in every situation necessary to gain opportunities. To those opportunities, I throw in a bid. To those bids, I place an unmeasured but respectable effort. This bill is still due. The ladder will be climbed. The plateau will be reached: Gaining and assigning costs. Sadly, where I cannot help but stumble, and never collect, I tread. As I walk, the soppy mud pulls down at my heals. There is no exit aside from the direction I came.

This is Pursuit.

I can name heroes, such as Alvin C York, who gave up the pen and took up a rifle, leading 100’s of men through respect and fear. I read that he was a teacher that volunteered for the first World War and captured over 130 men single handed. I can work canned equations that will tell me the declining chances as the hours near closing in my office that my phone will ring. I can cite tax regulation in context to a very defined, specialized and rarely referenced subject matter. I can draw on these lessons the way a craftsman draws his tool belt; I cannot explain hours spent or define with any reason one subject matter.

This is Woman.

Far more time is wasted than spent, yet somewhere, somehow, collected. I’ve spent on the perfect screens to distract myself from this fact alone. Most men do not chase a dream they have not experienced; ignorance is bliss. Within men that try, dressing as casual as one can afford and resting their beaten hands on electronic controllers, one may find a survivor. This man will climb blindly, because he has only ever know spending. He will spend blood, sweat, tears and time to never be vulnerable. The act of collecting becomes nothing more than the means to spending, and he will never let be.

This is Myself.

I have turned off the news. I have separated ways with those that need to surpass trivial, arbitrary hurdles. I will spend down on screens no longer. I have stopped broadcasting the news. I can feel myself exiting society. Like many men before me, I have begun to pack my bags for checkout. There is no blame. There is no hate. There is no expectation. Dreams. Goals. Responsibilities. A man cannot live on food and shelter alone. He cannot pick up discarded pieces of society that are not worth their weight. This man cannot die for anyone that would not live for him.

This is My Decree.

Signed,

Without Notoriety
More than Man Feb 2018
There is no Lenoir
Heralds stripped from us society
Leaving me to draw meaning
Or faulter
My name, upon the lips of my accusers
Shall warn.

But if I walk...

Content, I walk.

For what is left to offer
I ask in your final chapter
Who among you, could say that they are happy?
More than Man Jan 2018
Her heart broke in fractions
It took time to mind
Whilst her world was crashing
She cleaned her plate to mine

The scraps left from debt
Remnants of a feast
Shreds that I’ll collect
And painfully admit It feeds me.

And when her hands are clean
And the mess seems far away
I’m left to reconstruct
From sifting through a memory

They gather in the parlor
Living the best,
Sharing the worst
She felt the need to live
As I never was

And what am I to write about
Once blame and anger passes
Passages that twist perception
are now without a precedence

Erosion left behind
Room for pain to grow
I’m to believe in change
And with my unsoiled hands
**** the seeds you sowed?

Honey,
I’m left fitting pews,
And filling words upon a tombstone.


I’ve amassed a fortune
Of doubts, thoughts and analogies
Forgetting we were all once fools
Reminding souls of forgotten dreams

A dying flame, that draws the weary
Answers soft voiced questions
With T’s to dot, she eyes the cross
Finding blessings she forgot to mention

Blue/Green flames are those we tend,
Tend to last and remember
I placed my will outside of reach
To draw the fleeting to the dying embers

Purgatory is sprouting tulips
Dante’s returned home
But honey,
I’m left fitting pews,
And filling words upon a tombstone.
More than Man May 2017
I fell tired today.
Not weak,
Like a withering **** in setting, no.
I was not.
I fell tired like the cooling rails
Beneath an angry train car,
Pressing and creaking before his last stop.
And I stopped, to take

A breath of fresh air would pass me by.
I fall behind, and lose sight of my thoughts.
And if I'm only trepidation, I only mind --
Behind a set of eyes that lock
On to what should have been a glympse.
I find pride in

A will to endure: that of which
I owe simply what I've slowed to give.
Here I find the waning use of penitence.
I checked my laurels; signed them,
Cashed them, Spent.
I press to the rails and though I'm no train,
Assuming the weathered do not break, we rest.

I'm still grinning.
I live simply.
Picture as I fell
I did not have to count,
For all my blessings were at hand.
And with an open palm
And protesting of my mind, they fit.
Dare it to think - Dare I.

I'm spinning. My entire life I've chased
Never stopping to weigh my destination.
Though my past is catching up
I'm as sure as the beams beneath me.
A free ticket wouldn't get me on.
Be coy as you can muster.
Save face and save prefacing.
Breathe, my old friend, I've fallen tired.
The train has left the station.
More than Man Apr 2017
Where has the wind gone?
To find new sails,
Stitching their own of parchment.

Where has the wind gone?
In every man burns warm a fire
Hearths that only need be stoked.

Setting off into the blue.
Currents warmed by sunlight,  
In the night grow cold.

Settle and you may find warmth,
From each dying ember,
Convinced the sun will never set.

I can only speak of sparks
Where once the flames burned brightest.

That when the wind did not shift,  wisened.
And set fire to the parchment.
More than Man Jan 2017
C
It's true I've grown too lazy

To chase a dream
or wait to die
To chase the greatest of lies
or inheret a life of ease.

A choice that should not be
made in good company.

The trick is to pass
while you're still alive.
To survive,
knowing the smile will fade last.

A choice that should not be
made at another man's  feet.

Bury the shovel.
Lean the stiffened body to.
in an ever so relaxed posture.

Nothing left to market.
Prop a sign:
'Will work for purpose '

A choice made for an industry.

For mine,  I'm still waiting.
Though it's true, I have grown lazy.
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