The battle's done
the coast is clear
gone now are those we once stood near
we walk alone
and so to say
some that once slept now lie awake
and only memories fill their home.

So grit the teeth and dance in pain
and find a light,
so you may never lose their names.

Two minutes, we sacrifice.
The value of a human life.
Not to work two minutes harder,
or push ourselves 2 minutes further.

Not enough to contemplate
the pain and fear, the spite and hate.
Not 2 minutes to reparate,
our broken world, our shattered people.
The ones we left, who've grown so feeble.

We give 2 minutes for those who died.
Who died in wars so many times.
War and again, over and over,
and louder, the silence,
and longer, the violence,
so dilute in its gunfire and sirens.

Silence, 2 minutes, for those who died.
Yet silence eternal, for those deprived,
of human rights, and chance to live,
If only 2 minutes were all we'd give.

A muse to darkness, candle that frays,
the bud of the rose plant
sullies the brave.

A kiss under veil, decorum deceit,
the seed has been planted
and curdles beneath.

Like vines they entangle
the voice of the saint
thy soul they shall strangle
and crush, a
restraint,
chokes
the wind
of

breath comes back for a moment,
the wind howls wild for it has been defiled,
the fiend persists with ashen words
but howls protect from unholy verse.

Your wildest dream, hearts desire.
these things you've seen inside my fire.

You walked away and yet
she stands before you
her words still trickle in,
and then they floor you.

There's a place that I like to visit.
There aren't any people in it.
But it's where I go to learn about those
caught in the throes of the death do us part,
in sickness and in health.
For life is a marriage to blood and emotion.
A potion, a cocktail brewed for explosions.

And I hid there a while much too long
I thought I was strong, with my barriers locked,
but instead I found a child who's dreams I'd blocked,
In favour of the well rehearsed plots I'd painted around me
Let an air of confidence and contentedness surround me.
The irony is I've spent my life watching in others
the endearing innocence of the fragility of life,
the spitting of truth in the face of facade.
As I tried so hard to not be human
to be an error in the system
so I could rescue those who had no assistance.

But there was one lie that had me so convinced.
The lie that no one ever cared about me.
Taught to a machine of flesh and ideas,
ready to adopt whatever notion would get it through the years,
and it got me through many, and I can't say they were wasted,
but when your prerogative is copy and pasted
from an article of doubt, fear and hatred,
you become inflated by any solitary strength,
to compensate for love and care in their absence.

I thought the silence of my soul was a sign of peace
but it was only the absence of chirping birds and grazing elk
in the presence of a prowling beast.

A mind, I'm trying to find a mind
to read to help me get refined,
so that my guise may come to hide
behind my shallowness of mind.

But friends are few, and far between
a while it's been since I have looked upon them,
so I'll love the world
a little less while I'm without them.

Still I'll push on, borrow a breath
to test the mind out of context
to get to know someone I've made
but I will slow with each delay.

And now I write in Jic and Saw
my people are in pieces
I might just try to talk about
completely different species.

For those you know cannot be faked
but you can take a part and break
the pieces off until you have
a species for the minds you make.

What's wrong with this? I'm used to it.
Doesn't mean that it won't fit.
But I want more, something obscure.
I want to tell a story.

But I'll set out on that journey
only to arrive back in my world
I blame myself.
It's not so bad.
This world's fantastic.
Its just, you see,
you know, I'm lost for words.
It's good, but blurred. Absurd.
You'll only hear what's intended. You get life's blurb.
You're given freedom of winding cages.
Take this fruit, It's just for you!
I'd like a different set of rules, roll again.
We talk of chains, but who's to blame?
So take them off, have a dream. It's not such a pretty scene.
Unfold, place of mythic founders, and beasts that sit at limits passed.
Make a world that's twice as fast.
Draw my maps and hoist the flags.
Make a world and let me stab.
Boil one up back in my lab.

Sadly, the crew's out. No flags are sailin.
Gladly I bring her in, but she's thin n failin.
Turn on her side and see she's flat, my world, you'll say.
But I'll get better for that.

Thousands of generations
of human life
must resolve
before one man can sit here
and jab blindly at hieroglyphs
under two competing lights
both equally ingenuine
typing and tendering
thoughts
in the currency of writing
he hopes to invite in
some spur of the moment
some hurtful opponent
simple and vivid
to blind him for at least a moment
to the complex sorrows of the modern world
so that he can wallow in a sea of words,
and forget that to which he's inured
a biography written every day
read by no one,
but written anyway,
but the writing doesn't drive the gloom away.

It's a strange reget I fear,
that I might look back on my years,
and regret that I'd been kind,
when finally comes my time.

That I might look back and revere
the times when I was selfish.
And well, this was never meant to be
a contest of who was kindest,
I think in my absense of mind just
pottering around,
avoiding the risk of being
a bad memory from another human being,
but in this incessant kindness,
I worry that I'm seeing
an increasing list of costs
and a shrinking window of feelings
and asking in a voice
quiet enough to never be heard,
I ask the world, "have I been heard?"

I am no ******* of gilded sentiments.
Purchasing my fortune in currencies of kind words.
Settling my debts to the harbinger and the reaper
by my endeavor to never been seen alike them.
I seek the gentle will of the world we built
by calling blindly for salvation
within a nation of those who cannot see
and hoping that they'll somehow see me,
If I devote my life
to being something someone else should have been.

I write as a lover, before the storm.
The wolf pup in winter, seeking the warmth.
I write in a theatre made up of dreams.
Walking the tightrope, of my tensioned feelings.

Believing the gravity serves as my foe,
to bring me to earth, abandon my hope,
A pessimist calling.
I leave it a note.

I sing as the sibling, to decorate lives.
To wrap up those present, greet who arrive.
And each day is christmas, when siblings celebrate,
together they dine in the feast they create.

I work as the father, to wisen my hands.
To cultivate friendship with life and with land.

I love it regardless, this life that we have.