What if November is different this year
and all of the pain in your eyes disappears
something about it seems possible now
the past comes to reckon the sorrow somehow
And all that once was is becoming the seed
to what we've been growing inside of our need
Like futile devices that anchored our souls
the only way out was to simply let go
The troubles that followed us into our thoughts
have nowhere to live when our bodies are not

Quenching thirst with
The last drop of hope
Now, the weary traveler
Treads over the desert
Waiting for an oasis
All in sight was a mirage
Soul dried and crumbled
The sand tombs
Became the abode

“Smack—” brutal interruption.
Boeings groan down the runway—flight!
“Smack.”
The ceiling.
Freedom, flight, yes—there it is!
The hollow, cloudless sky,
The deep song of technology
Ushering them all unto distant horizons,
To distant shores.
Now—“Smack!”
The window.
Portals of complexity, numbers; calculations.
Confusion, darkness, loneliness—
“Smack”

Crippled wings and foreign tongues,
Dejected, forgotten refuse makes for a greasy coffin
As the carcass awaits decomposition.

Defeat.
Death.

skeleton voices calling with hollowed echoes
bounce against the insides of my ears --
I kneel propped up on bruised knees
smothered by the tear-stained floor
hands clasped together in a silent plea
emptied eyes cast skyward
silently worshipping a wealth of nothingness;
grey clouds
embracing the sun.

i feel like i am groping the wind
all i can see is pitch black
still i continue to walk
maybe i'll fall or stumble
but still i'll carry on.

i dont know what chance im grasping for
bu i continue to do it.
i discard the reason to stop
i know someday it'll make sense

people try to beat some sense in me
telling me its not going to work
but i feel there's something in there.
something great waiting to be unraveled

i'm still defiant
i am stubborn, yes
this is life.
not a game, nor a quest.

there's nothing pointless in loving.
the word futile is not acceptable.

They repeatedly boasted aloud
of conquests and victories
for a short period between
their  palmy days of youth
and unexpected quick death;
a mad rush of adrenaline
before thought could wake up reason,
nothing more than a basic need
for impulsive violent action,
few drops of poetry could have changed direction,
a death wish triggered by moments of darkness
that invites a chain of tragic consequences.

But thoughtful they were
to  hire overzealous writers,
being aware of their need of arming future.

The writers extolled the futile deaths
embellished words, made it look  heroic
which really pointed only to a ****** end.

Look at each tomb stones lined
here in the cemetery, once more
see, if the names extolled once are still not eroded.