we know of not
empty of meaning

knowledge pursued
no more believing
on graves once more
winner too far late

or it’s untrue
fiddle fame with fate

Names scraped well off
Open for disgust, shun
To spot what’s not



or
to spot what’s there

One silky spring day
in my bare memories
presents few fine crows
perched on light picket posts.


Gilded yet dark,
the birds spoke in shrills.
Had I looked away,
my mind be pure filth.


An orchestra,
all for me.
The hills swayed,
much with the trees.


But time's no fool,
the sky grew death.
A jolt of light,
a new scene set.


How quick it turned,
the blue gone too soon.
But on they went,
with transient tunes.

Yet, after not too long,



The bluster chewed land.
I woke from my glance.



The troupe had no disband.
I feared them with no chance.



Then,

A pale strike it was,
all I can remember.

It slammed its poor body,
so tough, so impishly,
how rough, how inimically.

Its feathers flew,
desperate to escape frightful peace.
Its beak dove down,
an Olympic performance to cease.

And so,
it flew right deep into tender ground.

And what's left of bitter sound,
is all to be ever seen,

yet never found.

the peace is erupted,
as my fellow oak friend,
swings to welcome many.
burden of warmth and joy,
all over my self, and face.

particularly my face,

                a down face—
     a falling down face—
                    a dead face—
         a far too dead face

still meets those fine rays.
yet no makeover,
left in one fine daze,
rife with all new face:
        
     a faced far worse face—
       a face none more face—
         a wished no war face—
a closed the door face.

all to erase, what face.

so, bring back the peace: NO delays.

so, put me to peace: NO more face.

Treat me with your best,
best i've never once had.
Say it to their rest,
I am no longer sad.

still they lack me not,
not as if i was there.
enough they really thought,
i am no longer here.

So I look on more,
more love my rude goodbyes,
the pain, so much sore.
I am well stuck so high.

I finally sit,
Sit on my beaten stool.
Maybe they can fit.
I am well with such cruel.

I breathe once again,
Again I take my life back.
make no mistake, there is but no win.
I am well with all, still none, a hanging track.

too long ago
i looked at my parents
they never looked back.
but i saw inside them

there was nothing to find:


      to believe they were ever young

impossible

      to believe they were ever like me

outrageous

      to believe they were ever different

ridiculous

so how silly was i
to even think such thing
with the answer so clear:
they came to be with me

what was before
  long gone
    vanished
      gradually

so i find the present
now at my feet.
my son, so young
looks up at me

he wonders to me:
were you ever
young before—
like me

so i chuckle
and i smile
and speak so nicely

why son, i am still young
do you not believe.
i am like you
like you are to me

we are the same,
the same same
that can be
  long gone
    vanished
       gradually

how can some thing
so clean
be so *****

that it floods our fears
wakes up our dead
breaks down our minds
and replaces it with dread

a dread that’s but fuel
to sate the hungry
the desperately numb
but worth no money

for we scrub
and scrub

until the skin
peels off our flesh

until the clocks
lose their minute hands

until the ground
quivers to no more

until the clouds
trap too much in

until the lines
turn into just words

until the earth
is just fine dirt

but we can wait
patiently
even with such hurt

all that’s left
of our world
is simply not right

we break a fight
they tear the might
we bear the night
they see no light
we see no height
they take no bite

and when it is
simply all over

the dark cries its call
and we look over
our shoulders

it proclaims to us

afraid of the dark?
see no light?

when it is too stark
simply avoid the sight