It’s just,

when I blink

Coarse fingers fly through the curtains

riding the light.

They splay across me like starfish when my eyes are closed and I part my lips

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone
Forevermore!

Revile him not, the Tempter hath
A snare for all;
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall!

Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,
When he who might
Have lighted up and led his age,
Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and heaven!

Let not the land once proud of him
Insult him now,
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead,
From sea to lake,
A long lament, as for the dead,
In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, naught
Save power remains;
A fallen angel's pride of thought,
Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul has fled:
When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days
To his dead fame;
Walk backward, with averted gaze,
And hide the shame!

I now know why she left us, in such a heated rush, she felt like she was a burdening to everyone of us. It was as if she heeded that feeling of despair and felt that it was needed to make her souls repair. But time would soon show us this was not in life's works God became quite jealous of her selfish quirks. One day death came a calling with no warning of its greed it took her quite willing with no regard for plead. Sadly now this feeling is weighed upon my head I hope this ain't a dealing of the taking of me dead.

Cigarettes and pheromones
Calloused tips
and olive skin.
Coffee stains
on aching palms
One wrapped around a neck,
The other conducting tendons
tugging at rhythms
******* theory.

Others’ are raised
crying hallelujah—
Yours stuck
Stiff like soldiers’
or unsure anchors—
Lost like subjugated natives—
The Stolen Generation of yourself.
Just follow the Rabbit-Proof Fence, John—
hide inside hollowed boabs.

I ask you if you’d like some tea—
you look like you’d drifted off.

You said:
“Now why’d you have to go say a thing like that?
Why are you always assimilating me to your context?”

Oh this youth,

standing in crowds in replica to their own.

Only perceiving the pursue of whats new and whats next.

Its a hunger for relevancy,

a persona.


Those in angst, in stride of going against.

Those in discard, choosing to ignore.

Those in bliss, falling into ignorance.

All unwittingly failing to look in the mirror to gander

at their true **** reflection. . . . . .

Yet they move as one amoebic parasite, reproducing at every

pleasure their senses receive.

But the perfumes and scents still fillthe condensed air.

Disguising the real wrank fumes of our the product we consume.

Soon, like every phase in history, these

images will be lost along with the ones who chase it.

But the moments before they're gone,

they will realize that none of the objects they have

obtained, were ever relevant.

Only holding back the true **** beauty

of the human kind, its experiences, and the wonder of the reality we actually live.

Don't follow the minds from the past.

These ideas will again be cycled.

It is our choice to evolve from our gluttonous behaviors and let our mother regain what it has lost.

What we know will be taken by time.

Crates of fruit from names of colors,
Strewn about like our past lovers.
Left alone and peeled apart,
Pulp fills the drain but leaves the heart.