We clash with unabashed ferocity
One of us; me, unaware
That a third is present
A flower, blossoming will wither
When watered with resentment
O’ little girl, sunflower
You stand in an empty field
The luminous rays of the morning sun
Comforts you until the gale of your fathers fury
Runs its course

The four leaf clover
Springs mystical compass points
North, east, south, and west

The sullen June rains
Clear as the sun breaks through and
Rises like a phoenix

Soul
Alive, astir
Gliding, enshroud, obscure
Awaken my tormented soul
Nomad

You are a loathsome creature
In death, you elicit sympathy

Your mental illness is your scapegoat
How could you **** so many?

The rage you felt
Turned outward towards the innocent

So many awash with the blood
Adam, high priest of perdition

You are not alone in your complicity
Did the NRA whisper sweet nothings in your ear?

Your father wishes you were never born
You’re your father’s scapegoat

You have uncovered a putrefied wound
That we are unwilling to heal

There is an old trestle bridge
Soot black skin
She summons the half living with her
Siren’s song
A melody heard by the tormented
The rope, laced through the lattice
An intricate weave
Claims another
She lives, that others may die
Her reticent soul is a comfort to me

I sit alone, at a table,
meant for someone other than me.
Waiting for the flash of inspiration or
a synchronistic event that
will change my plasticine life, molded
by someone other than me.
I’m here, when the sun fights its way to
be seen on it’s lonely track across the sky.
Today it’s cloudy but somewhere, the sun is out,
only to be seen by someone other than me.
I read your email and wonder—Why?
Why would you choose someone other than me?
I read the news, to take my mind off your email,
and read of a man, hanging from “The Black Bridge” and
wonder—why does it have to be someone other than me?