Made a bruised heart wait out in the cold
Had it sag down
On your streets where there were no justice
Only merciless dogs trembling in their skin
For so violent an unbelonging
Such a vain act of expelling
Came from your seat, your house
Cold hearth
The ones you bore waiting waif
Out on your streets, in concrete embellish
the ones you could not take home
Orphaned and fooled
Ding ding ding
Hearing of the death bell ring
And honor dies bleeding
But not a love lost

With these cold hands I write my symphony
With yours you've made yourself an enemy
And I sat and endured humility
Took the names and the liability.

I took it upon myself to curse and heal
I sat there and built a fever dream
Your words remembrance in my soul
A little fame from you I stole.

And perhaps I wanted you to be seen
In a light that was a little too mean
And I don't blame myself for the betrayal
Because I stood there a little too loyal.

And petty laughs I know you muffle
Ignorance in full throttle
We pray to the same deities but we do it differently
Are we to blame a deity
Or the society
For an unfair calamity
Id rather pretend to be
Almighty.

Esoteric, Edgar Cayce, yes,

a memory, a version, no known
reason weighing needful
to be told, proven, try
umphed past
to when now
becomes original intention,

to mention the crew involved
in building the stack of words
spelling all many ancient tales attest

as real significant events, once upon
this very point, where this many angels
once danced in tunes attempting to prove

the pastlessness of certain points
in time.

A full stop to the end of something worthy of time; -
a spot in the crowd, as a fool stops by feeling unwanted
here and everywhere else; - Less important than everybody
else; who am I if not a man silent most of the time; - sadly,
and greatly; his greatest work never becomes sublime.

Oh, it’s a curse; - that their eyes other face to
meet, but forget so rapidly an honest verse.

Still- he braves another line, despite what feels
like another pointless lie; - Still, he writes!

…as a violin with no strings,
…an endless sleep without beautiful dreams,
…a courageous bird with no wings,
…a mortal passion that never wants to die; -
              Still, he writes!

Look out,
across time, go
windborn in our mind being,

look out,
into the depths of ever being,

rethink the processes time used,
reimagine the silence at the moment.

All for us to have our own being in,
confined in common sense of the we
the one we of us since ever was a time,

before now, and later, still,
this same concurrency of events…

our crossing point in time.

Instants of peaceable knowing, growing
into states of conscious knowing use.

Curse the poets blood.
No matter how much I cut myself, I cannot bleed it away.
Curse the poets skin.
I cannot tear it off, it holds everything in.
Curse the poets feet.
The more I try to run away, the more they dig in, rooted to the words that ground my life.
Curse the poets tears.
They provide no comfort. They blur my vision, wet my pages and smudge my ink.
Curse the poets mind.
At times I dream of throwing it all away. But I cannot differentiate between reality and figments of creativity.