Pale fading jaded moon
Echoes of the same old routes
Subconscious fed what we are read
Some consume such hazy fumes
Supposed repeats become belief
To each eye is dry and empty
When disorientation looms, Jesus
Our efforts count when only viewed

Hard to shake off the grey fog
As the pace of life seems lost
Host a place for creative minds
Build upon what you've been taught
Changing layers of further thought
When heavy clouds pull into view
Energy depletes inside over time
Should you stand affront or wait anew

Shows will ooze their slime

from the screen, until we're full –


no longer useful.

A saint made of stone
has broken his neck
embraced by a boy

His head is in the middle
of the parvis, between the ribbons
red-white like the ambulance

for the wanton tourist
who wanted to present himself
with a unique background

without a notion of art
or an eye for the craftsmanship
of Bernardo Falconi

let alone some sense
of the religious meaning
of Sebastian's martyrdom

but attracted
by the divine beauty
of his naked body

Our systems show myopic woes
Foresight floats instilled in days
Who gains the most from short term aims
So easy to consume at pace
Routine breaks what hunger takes
Dilated weight from piled plates
To run on empty drives our kind
Spurred on by impulse
Mind caked in space

Clear your clutter on our way
Can shortcuts passed inhibit growth
Will we endure effective change
Sustain slower long term flows
To enter a fairer age
Filled with wisdom of younger days
Which ambitions reign supreme
When the state of fullness is temporary

I stare at graves
and the autumn leaves
that fall,
as my envy
for decay
consumes me.