The rainy pathway to my door
Is traveled seldom by love.
Yet when I wake up suddenly
And deeply seek one true friend,
He breaks the knot of silence,
Leaving me behind his stare,
Making no sound.

This life-long journey’s just begun,
A three act play on justice.
And when I’m asked for action bold,
My haunting spirit dries up,
And some spiteful, savage dreams
Concocted by a puzzled brain  
Take me over.

The distant torments weigh me down,
So I begin a letter
To myself in silent focus,
A jumble of mixed-up words,
Of wounds, of wonder meeting
A patch of juxtaposed doorways
Closed fast to me.

Erstwhile egocentric leaders,
Boasting childish rightful goals,
Preach democratic relations
Which, by cheating the ballots,
Become valid through heinous
And popular, unsuspecting
Loyal households.

Sometimes we hope for miracles,
Or anything to mend us
And make our lives less sorrowful.
The bitter tastes and weirdness,
Which color our existence,
Re-educate our resistance
In sane motifs.


Spotting the detours of our world,
In advance of setting forth,
Will buoy the dangers only some.
And then our soul’s résumé
May howl and regurgitate,
In front of witnesses galore,
Its cruel intent.

I play at a game of pretend,
But only win in time to
Scare a hill of ants to submit.
If belief in twitter’s true,
My score is less than zero,
But my ladder of life is full
Of gratitude.


© Lewis Bosworth, 5/2017