today
for the first day in a span
far too long since last occurring,
a son’s gaze to meet without hesitation.
before him, standing as—
a man,
deserving the title—
a father,
but never deserving, forever
aspiring.

a choice made,
though
for the man, not the best,
yet,
the choice—
a just decision.
its wake
waves of consequence—
each proving impotence.

to drown impossible when
offered the outstretched hand
of a child.

a room so dark—
so dark,
mistook for blindness,
hiding within it
a door,
whose presence made known
only by the glow of light behind it
spilling through gaps in its frame,
stabbing into the dark of
the unknown surround.

said a man
once, on the subject
“the unexamined life is not worth living”
his crass intent to
pry us from our
self imposed ignorance of self.

for—behind that door
lies the truth of a man,
freedom from ignorance owned by the shade, to
either, shed anew a light of validation, or
burn as an inferno and dictate correction.

the barrier,
held by simple latch obscuring truth’s illume.
a ****, whose demand be concentration,
its twist performed by
unbiased contemplation,
honest self examination.

that hidden behind such curtain
we cannot know until its opening.
the door—our veil of untruth,
whose lift made possible by word
of a wise man.

our home—
a speck of dust submerged in ink.
black so dark the
perfect embodiment of shade,
yet,
twinkling,
glistening—shimmering as
infinite diamonds crushed to dust then
blown across creation.

night sky alight with fire.
figures of fantasy and of legend,
mythical beasts
do battle as
brilliant hued flame.

space scape wonders, the tool marks of
man's most humble beginnings.
spied afar from a fantasy of grandeur,
titans of absolute certainty towering
over mystery as if
it were something humanity had conquered.
so tall mankind, our height
a spire of arrogance.

the truth we refuse,
blinded by ambition; that
we—mankind
the champions of delusion; that
we—mankind are little more than
a colony of ants believing
to possess answers pertaining
life's mystery.

there,
on the vanity it sits—
a perfect smile 'cross perfect lips,
different from the rest
though no less the same.
smooth silk wrapped to tie
in a ritual ignorant of shame,
to fasten in place our lie
a knot most meticulous in design.

hand in hand unwittingly we dance
together in this mingling mystery,
with partners of mutual secrecy.
fingers interlaced,
feigned honesty embraced,
swinging twirling maneuvering,
dancing to the tune of
hearts sobbing souls crying,
unabashed by singing despairing.

carefully painted,
adorned by most beautiful deceit.
flawless—pristine
milk white composure,
hiding beneath
the honest human
in orchestrated illusion.

a mask to hide truth, our
vulnerabilities, insecurities, showing
instead
the face of who we wish to be,
who we deem ourselves to be,
how society demands we be.
by shame or guilt
unfulfilled ambition to become
our dishonest rendition.

so convincing our lies even teller be fooled,
the truth to surface only by dream,
casting reality to realm of fantasy;
stealing from world a uniqueness of beauty.

a mask
belonging to a person—
to each person;
lies not worth living.
there it sits on the vanity—a
perfect smile across perfect lips.

a dream—
of landscape scorched,
its reflection my
soul.
the place one oft ventured
wandered—lost,
alone.

thunder,
lightning in the distance, the
rumblings of a
turbulent mind.

the ash of failed dreams
drifting
through the air,
strike as rain breaking silence—
a nagging reminder of effort’s shame.

angst, regret, fear
despair
a place damaged,
not yet under repair.

a flower
shocking contrast amidst mire.
perfect white petals perched on the
stem of a pen.
“My name is poetry.”
the instrument spoke,
“and you—are my purpose.”

skin burnt,
blistered and charred,
hair scorched to the
naked flesh beneath.
cracked hands bleeding;
make enfeebled attempt to
obscure disfigured face—
hiding from onlookers' gaze the
shame of such pain.

a world set aflame,
the inferno a scheme
by heat and by
fire, amidst
swirling orange spires,
the landscape through force
taken at desire.

an ape once great,
gentle regality
reduction by immolation,
magnificence squandered,
now moulded to ash,
an animal sacrifice—a victim of
act without consequence consideration,
to appease devilish demand,
the culinary Palm to
grace the malefactor's hand.

nature's innocence course set—damnation,
if not new mind found.
a power,
the fortitude and will
to exorcise this demon—
this demon
known as man.

A human habit universal,
our measure of success by possessions to envy.
An infernal curse—commercial purveyors, trinkets
of gold and gem,
shining blinking, fabrics glistening;
the value of thing manipulated by
them insect kings.

By lion's fang and butterfly guise they rule,
a hubris deceiver upon their shoulder
obscuring their likeness to those
serfs upon whom they
cunningly demand servitude, otherwise
be starved, put out, forced to watch their
future falter—sons and daughters
failing in flight, their
wings clipped prior first spanning.

Locust clans spurred to fight over resources, who
sell and buy back nature's bounty once
formed anew into advertisement's subject.
Oceans emptied of fish, forests becoming myth,
uplands turned to wastelands,
abomination fog a spherical prison choking
earth's inhabitants—the marketer's dowry
paid for marriage to a precarious economy.
Royalty made rich at cost of labouring spine,
but worse—
our home and thereby our hope we consign.

By their futile attempt to survive,
the locust instinct to consume,
until all is gone we contrive,
the inevitable a meet with our doom—kings
with stained glass wings to follow soon.
So small are we amidst this vast existence;
the ambitions of men
barely bigger than an insect's significance.