The smoke has yet to lift.
Giving the horizon a eerie feel.
The whistle of death has long since passed.
Even the thunder that lashed out so hungrily.
Has been subdued with the souls scoured.
Numerous holes are sporadically placed among the rubble.
Some are filled.
Like the contents of a blender set to mince.
I peer into the stagnant pool that collected in the smoldering depths.
Not even the earth seemed to want them.
The urge to dive in overtakes my senses.
And the remnant cries are getting stronger.
With every breathe does my mind crystalize.
Frozen in the moments that distort this rigid oasis of despair.
The need to return beckons.
Yet integration is nearly complete.
These arms have become strangers.
Just like the rest of this surrogate being.
The storm is coming.
But I remain.
Watching.
As the familiar figure takes its leave.
Grinning with every step.

The hesitant hand speaks through the white abyss beyond its dark eye.
Worlds are created here.
Excuses.
And words of love alike.
Men and women have died clutching and wrestling with this enigma.
The need to be understood.
What need is there when what is counveyed.
Was never captured at all.
Forcing more and more blackened guts onto a surface for criticism.
Only to claim the meat bellow grade and tossed away.
It's the output that heals.
That begins its torture like tools to ****** about the mind.
Plastering over more wallpaper with graffiti.
Trample over the art created to assume the role of the next tramplee.
Be humble yet there are no holds bared once the summit is in sight.
This cataclysm has taken enough of me.
And this righteous path.
Can only play granny for so much longer.
Before I too will grow fangs.
And tear this pointless paper to shreds.

Smile.
For all the times we reminisce of the hill.
Laugh.
In the moments that we swear we are going to hell for an ill timed joke.
Cherish.
Every second my eyes find their way to yours.
Hate.
All the miscommunication that lead us so far astray for so long.
Disregard.
Each sarcastic comment that seems to cut so deep.
Cradle.
What you never thought you would have.
Rise.
And take my hand.
Stand.
For what you thought you didn't want.
Fight.
All that may come to drag you down
Feel.
As I tell you I love you.
Trust.
That every single kiss is true.
Hope.
For all that is left to explore with each other.

And I will surely do the same.

Lasting is the haunting lament in the wind.
Gripping the muscles in spasms.
And hate.
The tourniquet is holding the viscous demon at bay.
Only the rabid nature beckons all the more.
This smile is one of pain.
Casting a redundant image into the film reel.
Called perception.
Just as the mirage fades.
Does walking in circles make sense.
Only to find the room is so much smaller now.
Stripped of valor.
Can one sense what always seemed to lurk right behind the eyes.
And just as the ringing attains piercing volumes.
Splintering the very ground.
Shattering the existence that was said to be so precious.
Ironically the only one dancing is my shadow.
A jester in the fading mist of memory.

These words that I write.
And the pain that I feel.
Remain stained upon this page.
But just as this page will deteriorate.
In time.
So will this anguish.
There may be times.
When the ink in the pen is not enough.
We must demonstrate our anger and hate upon the world.
But we realize.
That our actions scream louder than lungs capacity.
And even our bodies cannot hold the strain and punishment that we put it through.
So now we come back to the white paper.
And the ink in the pen.
To blacken our thoughts over again.

My hands have become raw.
The constant digging has made me complacent.
The tools have been scattered.
Just as the thoughts I sift through.
Glory to those that have found the treasure.
Trinkets of blight and misfortune is all that is left.
Do I cherish what remains..
Consume those that are truly nameless.
Faceless.
The definition is lost on me.
Yet I find solitude in the despair it brings.
A constant that always keeps its promise.
The lighting strike has found its mark.
For just as fast as it has come.
Lighting up my eyes.
I am left with only the afterimage.
A burn that is slowly fading.
And soon.
It to will be that of my imagination.
Hinting at a past with static charge.
Will this Phoenix rise.
Or has the fire finally been extinguished.

A wanderer I have become.
Traversing all forms of thought.
I am not the first.
Nor anywhere close to being the last.
at what point does the this hurdle.
Evolve into an obsticle.
Am I doomed to hit the plated steel at full sprint.
Or find solace in the knowledge that nothing can hinder this momentum.
Is this the peace that is sought after so viciously.
The acceptance of all that was bounded over to lead to this point.
Or is it just a lie to manipulate my mind from another truth.
Drawing figures in the sand as the other contestants rush by.
Who was I to assume praise would come.
And as I laugh at myself and all the foolish ploys I have created.
Does the simple.
Irrelevant.
Illusion come forth.
Winning was never an option.
One must eradicate any notion of the sort.
I must learn to fail.
Review and revise it's delicate tools.
For I have never thought that I would ever fail.
At failing..

In times of clarity, or perhaps
Moments of weakness
(Depending on one's perspective)
My greatest fear, I think,
Is that of dying without achieving
Anything worthy of mention.

The idea of being so ordinary
That your death
(or rather, your life)
Will be rapidly evaporated
from the earth's memory
Like light rain on a molten tarmac afternoon.

But you, at least on a mentally strong day,
Delude yourself with bursts of creativity:
Poetry, film, ideas of grandeur,
All of which persuade you that either
You will not die for a long time,
Or you will someday soon achieve.

This thought is comforting
And all is well.

Until one day you are having
A particularly busy teaching day,
And you rush to the usual spot
To grab a regular taste of Dublin life,
And order your chicken fillet roll:
Lifeblood of an Irish working-man's lunch,
And you eat while you walk -
Both briskly to save time before
Rejoining the rich children.

And the slobbering mouthful of
Delightful chicken baguette
Casts taco sauce from its grasp,
And dribbles down your pubey beard.

You stop and take a finger to it,
Knowing full well that the damage is
Done and that those hairs will grip
To the smell of taco sauce until
The drain tastes their defeat after
A particularly overzealous shower.

And it is in that moment,
With finger and beard stained with
The orange-tinged blood of a chicken fillet roll,
That your ordinariness and worthlessness become apparent
And it destroys you...
Because you always thought taco sauce was spicy.

In deep night I howl at the moon. Lonely I reach for understanding,
but it's always too fast, and too loud and too soon.
It might be too much, what I'm demanding.

Drowned cities beyond grass and trees are of no importance when strings are cut.
Stranger upon stranger becomes lover upon lover,
all with square eyes and hungry heart.

We feed like beasts on what feeling we can find when living in the truth of others.
And we wash of blood like common dirt yet we fear all dirt from our mother.

Faceless enemies all around,
with painted smiles and powers.
Oh how we corrupt ourselves chasing the taste of true flesh,
Chasing  bones between towers.

Not ever to feed on newborn thoughts,
our own world frightens us.
But howl at the moon, if just for one night, and feel, natures child,  what is right!

Filth and dirt and moon and trees, *** and love and ******!
You look for it all in screens of lies and you eat up each word without care.

Like all common men, you eat **** like it's steak,
for our nameless enemy created false dreams.

And the nameless is us, yet powerless still,
alone I stand strong, together you stand still.

To ask for more is common man's sin,
but to seek in new spaces is treason to your kin.

Alienated souls are dumped and lost,
questions fade by each year.
And what life do you live, puppets at will,
seeking bigger lies to cover your fears.