The man lay upon the city bench, his eyes closed against the day.
Dark aged skin warmed against the bleached and crackled paint.
Shadows of humanity are the only clouds to cross his mood,
a hastened pace helps avert its formless gaze when passing by.
What judgments has the world heaped upon him, or he upon his-self,
that has brought him to this space of civic consideration?
Is he ignorant of the angst he’s caused to be set upon our bliss?
To how disconcerting to the whole, his social presence is?
He is the dying form of a comrade seen through the smoke of the day’s long battle.
The one who is forsaken to preserve our flimsy rationales,
least we be brought low in some vain attempt to save our dignity.
Whose eyes once open might catch us in their noēsis gaze,
and hold us there unable to avert their silent condemnation.
Yet they are closed.
And our troubles stir him not.

What does a man do with his time, when his time is meaningless?
When all the years of productivity, produces for someone else.
Fruits not eaten nor enjoyed seem to rot when put away,
For the promise of a future meal at a table you may not make.

How do you maintain a purpose, when you lose the sight of youth?
When your memories are dreamlike, and struggle for their proof.
When dreams intertwine with memories and the past it blends away,
And the plateau that you finally reach is just another dusty plain.

Confined upon the seas of time, this voyage we’re ****** upon.
Are we indentured to the helm of this mighty ship we’re on?
For billions seem to sail this line sans the few that drift away.
Who navigates the future, when the clouds block out the way.

What future shores do I hope to hear the crow call out to me?
When the journey nears completion, with no youth to reverie.
Will I come to on the beaches of a new and pristine land?
Or will the currents ferry me away, never to be seen again.

I grasped at an image in the mirror that was never mine to own.
Held only for a moment before time took it back from me,
leaving me to decide if I should feel loss or not.

Why try to take a hold of something so immaterial as now.
For even now has passed before you know it,
and all we are left with is an empty hand and regret.

Very few can live outside of time, it seems.
Can let the moments of their lives wash over them
and cleanse away the sins of regret.

They allow the experience of life to fill them with
anticipation for the mystery of the next moment.
Even if that moment ends in the shadows of the unknown.

But in this stillness of time I sense the torrent.
which disturbs me from the calmness of my life,
only to drown me in a current I cannot dam.

I stand the silent vigil
     with my brothers left and right.
A perfect dress-right-dress
     keeps our columns long and tight.

We guard this sacred land
     Our valor etched in stone.
One mothers sacrifice is made,
     so that others may grow old.

I stand the silent vigil
    with my brothers left and right.
In the company of the honored,
    all are equal and upright.

Our numbers speak in volumes,
   though our names do fade with time.
Our fight is finally over,
   for our countries picket line.

I stand that silent vigil,
   with my brothers left and right.
Our banners handed forwards,
   the pennants marked in rhyme.

We stand at grave attention
   as new brothers fall in line;
And take up silent vigil,
  with their brothers left and right.

We stand that silent vigil
   with all brothers on the line.
Some fulfill their duties early,
   they are called before their time.

Those brothers that they've left
   cherish memories tinged with guilt.
They are called to share our stories,
   Even if it's once a year.

Is that God or Desperation
     That gets us through the night?
Are the faces in the ceiling real,
     or figments of the light?
Do we fill our minds with banal thoughts,
     to help us on our way.
Do we mark the time thats slipped and gone?
     To live in fear of that final day.

An argument is meaningless
     to the one who lives in faith.
Though all of us are faithful,
     and in that faith so few will sway.
Yet still the act of lashing out,
     seems to have it’s own relief.
Is that God or Desperation
     when we question those beliefs.

Is that God or Desperation
     that keeps us shelling money out?
In the quest to find some meaning
     are some willing to sell out?
Is the “truth” that some are preaching,
     worth the solace that it gives?
Even if that comfort irritates,
     and causes other men to ****.

Is there truly any way to live,
     when the fact is we all die.
Or is the truth what makes the soul,
     feel vibrant and alive.
If we embrace our own mortality,
     is it then that we really shine?
Is it God or Desperation,
     that leads to a novel life.

Walking down this dark and ***** path, I go to see my love.
It’s the kind of path that only a man like me can find, when walking in the moonlight, even though it’s been worn from time.
It’s the kind of path that makes the unknown man look stranger the farther down he goes; but I’ve been down this path many times and met my love back here for years.

Do you know what love is?

I mean, do you really know what love is?

Well, I can tell you it’s something that comes from deep inside, something so strong that all the locks and bars in this old town couldn’t keep me from it.
I would **** and be killed for it.  
I would die for it.
Like Hercules did in that Disney movie, though I doubt I’ll receive my god-hood in the end.

Now picture this.   Here now, before you is a strong man, a brave man, a man for every woman (and maybe a few men also).   But here is a man with money, power, and fame; but for his love, oh for his love, he would case it all away.
He would throw it up into the air and let the four winds take it form him like some poor dead relative being scattered to the sea.

Oh to feel love like that….to feel that kind of want.


You…you can not even begin to understand a feeling like that.   Only a few of us do and so only a few of us know where to find this path.
The one that’s littered with the remnants of our previous lovers, and the promises of the future, though it never said that promise was true.
I know that though.  I knew that when I started down this path and still it didn’t keep me from that calling.

Can you hear it?

Ohh…can you hear it??

I can feel it in my bones.

I’ve put it in my veins.

Oh how my love calls to me and keeps me warm at night.

When will I look in the mirror?
        Driving home, staring out of a rain soaked
        window, my reflection flashes back at me
        from my fellow travelers lights.
Thirty miles to my bathroom mirror
and all that remains are those flashes.
       Quick, fleeting glimpses of regret and denial
       that become whole in the glare of florescent lights.

I see the past.  I see the future.
       I see myself with ageless eyes staring
       ahead at me all at the same time.
Thirty years back to this bathroom mirror;
a long hard line that is the window to my past.
      This mans face will be old from time
       but his eyes are as perpetual as his soul.

The eyes are not windows where the world
can look with happenstance… they are a door.
     One that we can open and close at a whim.
Where we choose who and what we let in,
to the glory or detriment of our souls.
      I feel mine well up some days and push against
      my hinges.  Then I look into the mirror and push back.
There is no salvation yet  in that reflection.