Some days the canned laughter gets to be a bit much;
Is there any authentic laughter left, in this post modern Rome?
Even the real sounds artificial now-
Perhaps we’ve stayed at the gladiator games too long?

The sun’s already burnt us, we're tired and thirsty,
While the entertainments keep playing on and on,
Growing ever thinner, transparent, predictable;
With each dreary season, the same debacle song.

At night we dream, that we’re the newest slaughter,
They're readying to come for; that banging on the door:
No longer far away, swords drawn and at the ready,
The four horsemen are coming;  the apocalyptic four.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve never had religion,
For famine and scourge don’t belong to one creed-
But we're still too busy now, gorging ourselves
On endless dreams of supremacy and need.

Wind down my sun, my distant flame,
The solar wind has caught my pain.
On altars rare, of beaten gold,
I dare the goal, a coffer bold.

Burn not my eyes, my hapless face,
When at your smoking visage, gaze.
No sun spot mar your perfect shape;
Your withheld fury, theory's ****.

It's but your patience, keeps us breathing;
To ice we turn, at your slight leaving,
Though devils dance upon your gas,
A noble field, you'll be at last.

Just lonely nomads;
we're each others heroes,
for no other hero could there be,
travelling paths so ordinary.

Your name my siren call,
come heathered dawn or sultry dusk,
dim footprints only, left to show
where you shed your human husk.

Dead or dying; we're all the same,
intrepid explorers of rusting earth;
just hoping in some distant future
they'll remember our death or birth.

We own the sky, you and I,
And all the stars that sit therein;
Galaxies and nebulae,
Cosmic bodies with no end.

To what avail, I cannot tell
We inherit such a sum;
Although the world is still in braille;
Creation never will be done.

Our actions are the prayer, unceasing,
Of love’s creation which is sought-
New things arising every moment,
From the past and future wrought.

Midst all those, in good and evil,
We must avoid being caught-
Imprisoned by our own mind’s children,
All our strivings come to naught.

When our attention sharp and true is,
Unwavering hours of peace are bought-
Be careful when you once un-sheathe it,
The terrible, swift sword of thought.

Seas twinkle and there is a trace
Of diamonds in the sun's bright face
Day comes again; there is no death
Inside the garland of your breath.

In the temples praises sung
From dawn to dusk, Padme Hung
Gods and demons and their ilk
All churn the sea of milk.

The sun in splendor
Gives off light,
And she has not
One fear for night.

By a candle's flame,
I dipped my pen
In day's cold light,
To begin again.

The moon in purple
Hides his face,
His lacy silver
The barest grace.

By a candle's flame,
I dipped my pen
In night's starred sky,
To begin again.

The Earth in green
And blue's, arrayed
And far time, at her door
Has lain.

By a candle's flame,
I dipped my pen-
But where time's going
No man has been.