Some of my friends swear they are, but I'm not.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXL)


Rain.  Just a whisper as how twilight thence
Steals thinly 'cross the ist more fragile scale
Of wet?  I caught that note in sweet all hail
To say "it can't be--!" puddles' ghostly sense
Now winking lightly from the blacktop, whence
That subtler voice of traffic hissing, pale
In deeper shadows' lonely wake, t'avail
Was't true, and phone recharging, what from hence?
I'm sleepy.  Blackened silhouettes hulk fer
Good measure in the darkness, like a crew
Upon some ghastly mission as it were,
But I'm too tired for aught now, lying down to
Effect right in this stuffed chair.  Call it poor,
And one espresso long gone, kiss me too?

02Apr17c

A well oiled machine.
Its gears daily greased.
Cogs turning for centuries and shooting out steam.
An army of engineers to keep it running eternally.

Behind the smoke screen,
a lone projectionist screams for the audience to open their eyes -
to stop listening to the churning of mass produced lies.
(Shortly afterward,
he dies.)

A well oiled machine.
Occasionally leaking blood from its seams.
An army of janitors assigned with keeping it clean.

A lone visionary decides to alter the design.
Creates a switch that will turn all fog into light.
(Right before he goes to flip it,
he dies.)

A well oiled machine.
Built solely for the purpose of spitting out smoke,
and beneath it, a graveyard
of those who tried to throw a wrench in its spokes.