Wanderer, why are your feet broken?
Have they lost their will?
What of all the distant lands
yet traveled, ambled towards?
Are their soles growing dim,
forgetting the quest,
regretting the rest,
seeking a peace,
or gathering relief?
They, the betrayers,
led you into the dark...
long ago they conspired:
the left against the right,
the two against the one,
the one against the many.
Are they lost?
Are you found?
Ambushed, then discovered,
a worn sandal,
the soul survivor
of pilgrimages unknown.

i can hear the crickets again:
chirping chirps,
deafening me, a silent sound
bears them unbidden to me,
supplicant, bathing darkness
across my skin.

you are thinking about me, again.

i am certain of it,
why else would you be so silent?

Give me your tongue for Christmas:
it is of no use to you.
i will give you the fingers
of my left hand,
so useless to me.
It is a fair trade, no doubt.
Then we will both have
nothing of value.

Her captor deserves no quarter.
Stupidly cruel and blank,
the executor of silly lies;
the denizen of the dumpster;
the drunken trickster;
the worthless excuse;
the excused human;
the circler of drains;
the drainer of circles;
i see the dark in his eyes...
Why?
Won't?
You.
*******?
DIE.

i am hollow on the outside for you:
a completed tribulation,
standing grammatically sound,
whispering coos and slurs alike.

Tomorrow, my dear, i will rend
my eyes for you.
Tomorrow, i swear it.

Today is for feasting,
tonight is for laughing,
yesterday is for remembering,
but tomorrow: we die.

We feast as Romans:
gorged, feather tickled,
hedonistic embossed.

We laugh as hyenas:
nugget ******, giggling,
reservation tossed.

We remember as ancients:
eyes blurred, teared,
longingly lost.

But tomorrow, my dear,
we die, together again.

Ever onward we hurtle,
across time and through space.

Lonely mutant animals, joyful
thoughtful, gleefully cruel.
Our pets fling poo and
maul child and elder the same.

We know they underachieve:
We water our gardens with
the souls of our enemies' children.

We twist alphabet knives
betwixt the ribs of the betrothed.
We turn seeing eyes away
and blind eyes towards,
ever onward.

We wander lost in
perfection's labyrinth,
****** pulse of fear
beating beating beating
brains driven fear driving:
ever onward.

costly lawyer hired
to defend this criminal
strangles cops with tie

Time does not move when watched.
It slinks through the shadows,
preying on our distracted minds,
a subtle movement at the eye's corner.
It is deceitful. Duplicitous.
Dim.
Attached to our hips; Pan's shadow;
unthinking and cruel;
a quantum paradox of certainty,
linked to a count running
silently, sub-consciously.

Assuming, of course, you can count.