We are now
philosopher kings
searching for meaning
in a meaningless world
where words are diabolical tongues
twisting hate into a serpent's truth
soothsaying the next coming
we struggle
to hold on to something
real
to settle an existential score
but we must
heal
because we know
the war
is alive
in us all

These Saturday mornings
are profound
crinkled sheets
and coffee speaks
in tongues
I wander
through words
and rhyme
syncopating time
and space
and the pace
of sound
my mind
navigates
the newfound
breath
as my pen’s
unkempt cursive
forgets
time
I descend
completely
into my
rhyme

It is all so jarring,
the turbulence,
the waves.
A crashing
oceanic grave
crescendoing
in true operatic form.
The destruction adorned
in a Tempest’s
scorn,
nature fatale.
We all
surrender
to something
beyond
ourselves.
The storm
is now
here
my friends.

I am restless
tonight.
The snow silences
some,
but not all;
the voices inside
are wild.
Rhythms rouse
a reckless rite
passing through
a night
crawling
towards us all.