Freedom …
It’s just a line.
Dominion Dominates.
The Republic baits the hooks with choice then
Casts the lines to catch those brave enough to bite.
We have all bitten.
Hook line and sinker.
Sink or swim is irrelevant because out of the water
We are out of our element.
Placed in a new environment with the worm of freedom in our bellies we are blissful.
Yet, we cannot breathe. Short of air, yet without a care the worm provides the mirage we need.
We fall prey to our captors with ease, as we delve deeper and deeper into slumber.
Fortune crushes the brave, as we ate the line with the bait essential to our life.
Caught in our own folly of freedom flayed with knives the worm is gone.
Bought and sold in markets kept fresh on ice for those who caught us then
We are cooked or fried in order to keep the fishermen alive.  
Freedom after all…
It was just a line.

Repair to repair we mend.
Broken down we begin to be built up yet
Again and again and again
We Crumble.
We race and bustle about for constant cycles
Grasp and wrestle time yet
Around and around and around
We Bumble.
The Busiest of bees transparent to each other
A mystery without the magic we falter
Love is artificial. Placed in bars we search in profiles
Constantly connected without connection
Based on superficial affections
Stuck in an iron cage the music plays the sorrows of
The carousel of modern life
Around we go Around Again in circles
Playing the same game
Over and over
It never ends.
So let the games begin!  
The Constant carousel of crumble and mend.

Asleep.
As you lay in the covers and sheets of your bed: with your lover to the left and your favorite pillow beneath your head.
You think of life as it is and think of love too,
As it exists.
Your eyes close. Your mind begins to drift.
Your thoughts become vapor
Falling.
Drifting towards the rigid tides of day and night.
As you hit the surface you begin to sink and seep into the streams of cognitive dreams.
You swirl and sweep flowing deeper and deeper into the dark depths of sleep
Beneath the water bridges,
You think.

Life is a conscious coma.
A constant flow of paradox stuck in between contradicting consciousness of idealistic ought to be’s and realistic realities.
Love is just the same.
We are all awake yet asleep within a dream.
Love is the fall into the breaks of hallucinogenic waves between beauty and the obscene.
Life is just the same.
So fragile yet so weak.
They tread and sink within contradicting currents
Beautiful yet bleak.

Awake.  
Laying in the covers and sheets of your bed: with your lover to the left and your favorite pillow beneath your head. You think of life as it is and love too,
As it exists.
You stare at the ceiling above, eyes wide as you begin to realize
All that matters is the fall in both life and love.
So fall.

My memory is just a darkroom, where every picture ever taken by eye sight:
Waits.
Develops.
They accumulate in Black and white,
Positive and negative.
My mind the developer, my thoughts the water, removing the excess silver halide.
What remains is a picture, a memory taken from this very life
They hang from thin lines fastened by close pins so delicate and so fine
To dry,
To develop
And remain to live in the safelight within my mind.
But you see that light has left,
Now every picture is
Too over exposed,
Too vague
And too undefined.
I’ve had too much drink, so much smoke.  
A stop bath of the wrong kind.
Too much green and blue light.
You see, my darkroom is too bright
Now the pictures that hung from the close pin lines of life
dilute,
shrivel
And fade.
Now,
What remains is a picture-less memory, and no clear recollection or reflection.
No darkroom for every photograph ever taken by eyesight,
No pictures of black and white.
There is just one final question…
Who am I?

Branches and leaves
That is all we are
That is
you and me.
We are
from the same tree.

Must
love each other
or
perish.

We grew together
Made
new branches
made
new saplings and seeds
created
our own
Family tree.

Love one another
And
Cherish
Every
Branch and leaf
Must
Be.

When the shower curtains are made of silk and bleach detergent is in your milk, there are subtle signals of your malady played to the notes under this melody.
This house is a frozen Frigidaire. Remnants kept
Cold.
Bare.
Simple thoughts of the sandman’s nightmares.
The monsters escape from beneath the stairs.
They're afraid of freezing, afraid of Death.
Though you stand there breathing yet can't feel your breath. And you're there in the hallway.
And you're there in the breezeway.
And you're on the white balcony playing dead.
You're in between the wallspace.
And you're in the creaks of the staircase.
And you're on the ivory keys playing this song in my head.
The car in the driveway is 50-years-old.
The tires are roots. The seat belts are mold.
There's no gas in the fuel tank, the steering wheel's gone.
You sit as the driver, your blinker's stuck on.
I found your name in the library news. It vaguely explained what had happened to you.
For most of your life you were silver spooned
Wealthy
And rich.
Yet, simultaneously
Cold.
And bare.  
Slowly sipping musical arsenic
Unhappy
Dead.