Fascinating in technicality
Are the nuances of the human mind.
A field of strange flowers inviting
The observer to delve into its' fragile psyche.

The hungry audience retires for
The night, riveted by the days find.
Their sleep restful and undisturbed,
The field will wait for the morrows next pry.

The flowers roots run deep,
In search of another of its kind.
Not noticing the deadened leaves
Left in its path, as it hides from the airless sky.

The field sprouts its foliage,
Another being of comfort for which to bind.
The field so lonely,
Sheds a tear as its' flowers die.

Unable or unwilling to let
The spectators irrigate the dying mind.
The field resolves itself
To forever remain lonely and dry.

The empty spilling glass stands high,
Teasing the parched peasants.
Their tears water the arid ground they lie upon,
Etching on them their painful plight.

At home in the soaking cities,
Built on scraps left unused
By faces that don constant smiles
Because never had they need not to.

Those poor souls they pity as they wait
For a cause that ushers them to their safety
Of cushions and robes, that deprives them
Of time to give a much needed pauise

They fill up their glasses from the
sparkling pool made from those sun-drenched eyes.
Uncaring of its price, They selfishly retreat
To sip as they subside.

Transparent dreams
And pearly-white memories
Are all that remain of a time
Where smiles came free of charge

My money, assets and my keys
Are yours to keep forever eternal
If you can but grant me
A restful nights slumber.

I am but another lost soul,
Cast away and undefined.
No place to seek comfort
But the echoes of my mind.

Transparent dreams
And pearly-white memories
Are all that remain of a time
Where smiles came free of charge

My money, assets and my keys
Are yours to keep forever eternal
If you can but grant me
A restful nights slumber.

I am but another lost soul,
Cast away and undefined.
No place to seek comfort
But the echoes of my mind.

We sit inside our man-made havens,
Preferring to act unaware and undeterred.
Black is not white nor can it never be,
For that would be a world reversely turned.

We drink in only the logical, Leaving
Our thirst for truth parched and dry.
For and outcome undefined would never do,
So we decide not to try.

If by living a live of oblivion,
Following the “right” path all the while,
Yet North in fact turns out to be East,
Shouldn’t logic itself be put on trial.

Alone she resides in her own creation
A world of anxiety, So subdued.
Answering the door to no one,
She ponders her mind, So confused.

Glancing at the outside world,
Happy faces of oblivion pass her by.
She struggles to understand them,
Only to retreat into her fragile psyche.

One day she hopes to join them,
To sip from a glass half-full.
Aspiring to master the art of smiles,
To emerge from her cancerous lull.

Those bright blue eyes,
Full of wonder, so alive.
Enveloped in her agony,
She hides tears and paints on smiles.

She lives for her disease,
Knowing that in the end it will manifest.
She hears the warnings, the pleas,
But doesn’t listen, doesn’t fret.

She strives for perfection,
Of body and of mind.
Her shadow may walk on
But she is left behind.

No direction,
Nor any intention.
Nothing to find on my path of blind
Faith in your shadow.

I am but an unique actual observer,
Not to believe that what I discover,
Only to provide that which you request
And to accept that what you say,
Is what’s best.

If I am but to completely vanish
Into a free transparent layer,
Remember that in your time of need
Twas only I that was there.

Slithering skin forged into armor
by design, the highest quality of steel.
So diaphanous yet opaque,
a finely sculpted guise.

Today the scales are made of bronze,
tomorrow ebony or maybe gold.
The tireless smith works late into the
night, pursuing perfection undefined.

When the blessed night arrives
the armor's lain delicately aside,
always ready to be unsheathed
lest a new face or two should arrive.

Slumber is no longer silent,
dreams are fuelled by the next design
To fool the specatator into thinking
that the wearer is one of their kind.

Mirrors offer no reflection,
neither fair nor foul.
Only the gilded armor shines,
ever quenching the once human soul
That forged its' own demise.

A bright floating matter
Untainted, Sinfully pure.
Struggling to release itself upon the world,
It can be the only cure.

Ignorant, we ignore its existence,
Tis far easier to walk on by.
For a moments acknowledgement
Means questioning the embedded lies.

As the sand creeps downwards
Within its glassy prison,
Our only hope to survive
Is to remove our rose-tinted prisms.