There are those who move like humans.
They breathe the sky,
Eat the fat of the land,
And will return to the Sun,
But even the wolves fear them.
They’re full to the brim,
Of flesh; bags of bones and blood
Greed, importance, hate,
But no Soul.
These men are dead.
Fear has consumed them,
And spat out what little could not sate the hunger.

Waning light braces itself for the cold,
The night slips in ever rhythmically,
Its widening tendrils of review and verdict,
Of judgement and embarrassment,
Things unsaid and regrettably not,
Which ebb together in tempo to the hearts-slow,
Until naught but beat and breath remain.
At daybreak this trial in retrospect
Is an unfamiliar and alien ‘mare;
A shack of sully and strife,
Cobbled together of all manner of conflict.
How surprised then the Travelers are,
When upon Paths Well Taken,
Through soft sand and smoke,
Apparates a moat!
Of Tinder-ful gorse and bramble,
Which cradles a finely buttressed fortress,
Upon which their lives continue to ply,
Such callous defences,
So routinely.

Disappointment is
Slaving yourself to a system
That no one believes in
Controlled by men
Of inferior intellect
To create a life
That is someone else's dream
And then being remembered
For drinking too much
And being grumpy
But then you make a life
And she is beautiful
After the labour
Her tiny hands on your face
She's full of smiles
It's all worth it
She hums on your shoulder
Every day at 4:30
I'd dare not miss it
It's an appointment