Stoic Dec 2017
On days when it helps to look ahead,
I push to peek over shoulders.
And who should mirror my manifest view?
None other than youth looking back on the older.
Stoic Dec 2017
Fractured perceptions,
an inner geometry
anxious to shape me.
Stoic Nov 2017
Bathed in delusion,
plain fabric sopping wet
clung to a tired spine
left out in the winds of this city's vistas
to siphon from the atmosphere.
The illusion cakes on,
dries the eyes and mouth,
smothers the form with drought.
A fleeted gust sweeps the dust off my clothes.
Here I am, stepping in puddles
like I hadn't drowned only moments before,
letting the layers of my senses flake away on the breeze.
Stoic Nov 2017
I tell myself i'm worthless
and life responds in kind;
I see no sense in ending things
since neither seems to mind.
Stoic Nov 2017
A clamoring of frightened cries ignites the idle air
and flares beneath the beating breast of all therein the square.
Some turn to leave and others stare
in shocked and bated breath
where sprawled beneath the summer’s glare
a body sets in restless death.

A barricade is born absolving gawkers the unpleasance
of claiming guilt or charge over disturbing this senescence.
Though uprooting such putrescence
leaves much to be supposed,
their pittance is lost in essence
on the presently decomposed.

Then at once an air as thick as sickness quickens as it rolls
through all the *** forsaken mob to soak their wretched souls;
where pureness slakes the mind with light,
this burns the lungs with coals.
They stagger away in rattled dismay and steal into their holes
while that fever preys on naivete and takes from them their tolls.
So addled as they are with blight
that no cure-all consoles,
some few must brave to clear the site,
and fall into their roles.

They bury it beneath the sod,
hush the young, assume facade,
leaving some to boast and laud
their fortitude despite their fraud.
But time will wear on life and land, and karma comes to bear;
the callous mind will fall in kind to ages of despair.
It suits the living just as well to leave the dead elsewhere
than bear the thought that someday
they might join the whole affair.
Stoic Nov 2017
Energies of lesser or greater densities
deny the drifting worlds between her and I,
compounding supereons of my self
and similar dimensions
to rake at the spaces she'd left behind
when she was still tangible enough
to stir them with her intrinsically lucid design,
where a brush of her bristled excitement
suffused passion through a moldering sense of self
and spread the dye over everything in time.
I felt a confidence from the outflow of her being,
dexterous and firm from the start,
the progression that mortal pools would make
toward faded permeation
could not dissuade her from seeking out the best in me.
Somehow I fail to see why.
Perhaps I've been mindless to her rapt artistry,
smoothed as I am into warm depressions
where palms once fatigued her canvas
in their fevering attempts
to unearth and inspire me.
Lately though I've feared
that the richness of her radiance
was altogether imagined by wistful perception,
that the sway of her bold strokes,
her starlit visions burning in my fiber,
had settled on a medium
too dense to appreciate all that she'd composed.
Resigned as I am to this state,
the light of her labor and love
eludes me in the stillness of its completion.
Stoic Sep 2017
Those who reap of
a much deeper love
than carnality all on its own,
have the forethought
to sow more in lot
and relish in all that is grown.
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