The country can live
the king is now dead.
The rebellion exchanged
a crown for his head

The guillotine answered
the blade was released,
but third law prevails,
as actions repeat.

The uprising's father
was next on the list
for it to continue
for it to persist.  

A revolution can die
when they eat their own.
Sir Isaac was precise.
Robespierre should've known.

How does the light work
Says the bird to the other
And does it hurt to get
Caught in its radiance

Life is layers of songs,
written deeply on,
thin skin and deeper
strands that are the keepers
of essential secrets
that I don’t know
how to read.

It is unexpected
not predirected
but moving in
its own directions
at its own pace.

It is as sweet as
sugar cane,
and as bitter as
the tea leaves,

seeing us coming in,
swimming then
drowning
as we leave.

Life is more
than my poetry
can portray,
this game I play
trying to make
gold from clay
as chaos reigns.

No matter how
I try to explain,
it is such a shame,
life is only
temporary.

Trips to other countries
meeting new people
free for the first time.
or
Digging deeper within
personal introspection
both life-changing experiences.

...that life is a blank canvas
after I've
pawned my paint and
brushes
for a bitter cup of coffee
and a bus pass.

Standing proudly now in his
purple silk-dress, tall
and lifting
the sky on his back
come on,
he says
I think I am allowed
what an untypical sight he makes;
that proud face lacking
all signs of arrogance