I long for the days forgotten,
Days huddled along the bed of an old swamp,
For days old and rotten,
Days boundless, crushed by his weightless stomp.
Nor let me arouse the familiar occasion,
To tones of crackling ends,
Let me not wither in sensation,
Rather wander until I reach the old bends.
Is it all round and fair?
To care for his certain demise,
But torment and rattle deep within my lair,
Groaning my ascent into his holy skies.
I too shall wait among his prescence,
The Creator of darkness and fate, I shall know my essence.

“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late
And how can man die better
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods”



Soft murmurs along the front line crackle like a broken prairie plough,
The maples and oaks snapping with
Every burst of the cannon.
Crested breaths choked out by
The ferocious blasts of this entrenched
Jungle.
Shrieks punctuate the deathly silence,
And sobers the divisions thirst for war.
I, a dead soul among the living.

The soft wind at night is the nefarious fingers of death,
Soaking the earth and ****** boughs
Of the old oaks with the veins
Of golden purity.

(I am standing on an eagles skull.)

I can hear the Rebel yell beyond the tree line,
BLASTING the barreling notion of liberty,
Stacked within our Union souls.

A Bundren coffin takes form in the mist beyond the wasteland.

My kin lay wait at home,
Shall I return one day and parade through pastures
And creeks until the days grow old
and so shall I.
With kin side by side.

My vacant mind floats off to distant lands along the
timbered forests of the Free North.


Orations from my Grandfather resonate like wind chimes
Rattling among the inner confines of my sanity,
Strewn images flash like the lines of Virginian regulars,
A sparse reminder of my ever so soon fate
In the Wilderness.

Four blocks, yet more to come
Derelict hopes are crushed by the
Perpetual, cacophonous blast of the
Somme.
My brethren wail for fears their mothers will pay them a visit.
I juxtapose my own existence in this war machine.

(I can hear them in my sleep)

My ears are ringing a ballad,
A barber shop quartet echoing;
Paradox’s that fester in the inferno.
A ticket to my ever-so soon visit,
Rage.

Am I but mere kindling to the flames of the Somme?

I feel the shutter of my curtains,
Stare into the Madness,
Where curiosity and dissidence
lay side by side.

My bed quivers in the early mornings
Light,
Pausing only to Juxtapose the desolation of
my
Sanity.

The floorboards beneath my very feet
Tremble as my consciousness
lay siege to the rational.
As if a sadist has purged the inner
mechanisms
of my Rage.

The stars stand still,
perhaps a welcoming message to my
overwhelming question.
Do we wander the world transfixed on doom,
or see that goodness and glory penetrates the
deepest of trenches?

The ceiling fan bumbles it's absurd existence
into my frontal lobe,
its tense relationship with the air,
Massacring it's way along the roots
of my
liberty.
Perplexing the cause for which I
have lost my thoughts to,
And cultivating the seeds
of
my
MADNESS.

The man sat precariously
Between malice and forgone destitute.

Marooned in his rambunctious desire to view through a port, nothing but envy.

Shattering wine glasses and screams into the inferno uphold this one man's bough of uncertainty.

Tralfamadorian trauma eats away at his grotesque painting of the rational.

He walks but an invisible eye among strangers.

Trails of desire, and fortunes of love,
augment my sole goal,
To be with you.

Your beauty compels the most
Omnipotent of gods,
Who bow at the ray of your prescience.
Your voice quells all wars,
And fine tunes statovarius violins.
As your voice a fine piece of Mozart, carefully crafted to sooth my soul into slumber,
Where love sleeps.
Your smile that greets morning runners,
Lights the earth,
And rotates around to warm my soul.
As your smile a beautiful display of natures finest, a Starry-night.
Your ambience shelters all.
The beautiful prairie horse to my life;
determination to be(me).
As your ambience the tender gratitude a soldier will carry in battle, his final hours.
In the crucible of love and desire(for(you)).
Knowing you will be there(with me).
My love.