I wanted to write without rhyming
but it became a question of timing.
How could I just flow
and not ever know
when to st

The man walks
The bird squawks
The children run to play

The clouds flow
To where clouds go
And the seconds tick away

The earth turns
And the man yearns
For an answer yet today

Of why he is here
With nobody near
To his heart that rots away

On the man walks
While the bird talks
It goes on endlessly this way.

The curtains twitch... in my street,
They pretend to be rich... in my street,
The gossips thrive... in my street,
But they’re barely alive... in my street,

The big cars come and go,
They all reap what they sow,
They pretend and they trick,
Atmosphere is so thick,
I’m the **** of their jokes,
And they pinch, and they poke,
But they fail to agree,
That I see what I see,
What I see, is the truth,
I will shout from the roof,
They can’t judge me at all,
For I’ve seen where they crawl,
but my lips they stay tight,
For there will come a night,
When they will see me see,
And they’ll understand me,

People talk... in my street,
People stalk... in my street,
A massive game... in my street,
We’re all the same... in my street..

Manic pace
Endless race
Running quickly every briskly
Never stopping
Springing
Hopping
Blurs of people
Buildings – steeple
Walking, talking never pausing
Coffee cup raised – no enjoyment
Half my life spent in employment
Process, success
Never egress
No time for nonsense – far too serious
They don’t hear us
Writing poems, books and sonnets?
Back to work
Stop being honest!
Project deadliness
News and headlines
Endless lists of pain and crime
Tired – worn out
Day is over
Lights out – dream state
Morning:  it starts all over

Of the winter days and darkest nights
and long forgotten sorrow.
Upon the freshly scattered thoughts of years passed and hope of new tomorrow.

Beneath the veil so carefully sewn
and lies of all we think we’ve ever known.
Amidst the ash of burned yearnings and long forgotten desires of home.

So deep among the rusted treasures
and things we’ve collected here.
Only to have them fall to pieces as year surrenders to year and year.

Somewhere in this mess of failures
beneath the retched, smoldering coals.
It lies forever dormant, but dangerously visible among the shallow shoals.

Shall we dig it up?
Remember fleetingly our soaring youth?
Remove the scars and stains and ever-worn disguise, restoring it anew?

Pretend the veil is torn in two?
Pretend we’ve opened our worn eyes?
Relive the pain and sorrow, open fully shattered wings as if to fly?

No.  fear not.  We are far too smart for that.
We’ll leave the fire ablaze, the mundane in place
and further distance abandoned desires to be, to live and see a difference.  
Preferring just the same things.

Thou leanest to the shell of night,
Dear lady, a divining ear.
In that soft choiring of delight
What sound hath made thy heart to fear?
Seemed it of rivers rushing forth
From the grey deserts of the north?

That mood of thine
Is his, if thou but scan it well,
Who a mad tale bequeaths to us
At ghosting hour conjurable -- -
And all for some strange name he read
In Purchas or in Holinshed.