when the sand fills,
and the hands of time
caresses you into submission,
freedom feels a little too
overrated a concept.

we are puppets
dangling at the side
of a building, waiting to
be taken off the clothesline
or by the wind—
both of which we know
we'd gladly take just
to end the discussion.

i am a firm believer
in whispers.
small talk isn't
too small for me.
i hold my words too close
to my chest i barely breathe
without them.

so now, as my eyes fail me,
i wish time will be so
kind enough to tell me
how all of this ends.
i do not want to suffer
more than i already do—
and i do not need
another lesson on how to
survive in this
god-forsaken life.
yet everyone feels
compelled to
give me one anyway.

Finish my pout:
Still in silver service, silence for stone
Speed of specialness, I implore to route
A friends smile, to a season of its loan...

Brazen, the tooth of intimacy
Even to the point, of reticent doubt
We are the sigh, of a debacle, ready for instancy
That has come and gone with needs, the many is now...

Courage
And the taint of a maligning lip
So sovereign, for a river of couth's, wage
*** and deliberation's share, in the stoic misery we whit:

Is a taste in wishes with none's voice, for more?
Set in mutual distrust, the music of completion...
Is a hardened drive for poised meager and tumultuous, war?
Of sincerity to fathom the just, the tow of comprehension with sin?

I hate, therefore I dream in colors...
Of heaven with a remembered plea:
Sated with your soul, and the intricacy of what honor; force
I have given not, the heed of history, in the voice of youth to be free...?

When lost in giant thoughts
and mumbling lips don’t hear
how divine prayers fall
on puppets on the walls
In vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!

When darkness bends the light
and you hide from y’own eyes
and you run from y’own voice
and force the cogit shut its door,
In vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!

When lazy sky transforms
the clouds into boomerangs
and crippled stars pretend
to be white angels of your lies,
in vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!

When houses are cold
and candles are not burning
and tears are pervert actors
that never listen to the silver bell,
In vain you pour your soul,
Is all in vain, my man!

Mundane concerns stifle
the soul that hungers for the infinite
Practicality subverts the mind
as it questions and wrestles with
this existential enigma...

Bound by the curse of productivity
and the insatiable drive for accumulation
Libidinal, perverse thoughts
drive the working man

to this, to that...

he is a puppet pulled by invisible strings:
the corporate, bureaucratic masters
calling the shots
laughing control freaks...
the world is theirs for the taking
and the worker-slave raises his hands
a sense of triumph
as the crumbs fall down

We live in a Kafkaesque era
merrily languishing
in this willful dementia.

I'm a silently panicked individual,
on the outside  I'm calmer than
    the ocean on a windless tide.

But underneath I'm like a riptide of
trepidation,
             I wonder different scenarios.

What if's,
                when will I,
              why the hell are they
                                    not 6 feet away.

In my view, a cotton cloth isn't going
to stop anything, if a **** can get through,
                boxers, and Demin trousers.


How's a thin cloth going to stop it,
              P.s the rest of your face neck
hair is open for business.


Its absorbed, every breath, touch
cough, that travels much, much
further than you think.

With your vinyl gloves that spread more
than you realise..
             But what ever makes
                          you comfortable.. that's ok!!!

                             But don't touch anything
I want to pick up with your filthy hands.
Id rather trust unwashed digits to those
blue, white, finger puppets of falsehood.

I read the news, so many who help us,
          those in need thank goodness I'm
not one, not yet..
But they help the poorly,
                            the dying..
  I hate that word
                            DYING..
loneliness,
             of family unable morn you,
             to smile and wish you good journey.

You, we, them just die without a smile.
               a We Love You.
No they just gasp looking for comfort,
      but all they see is others gasping for
           just another day...

                      Flatline...…………………………………….

Some puppeteers perform upon their own stage.
A theater made by and for themselves.
They enjoy an act of selfish design
Then bow to raucous applause
From hands pulled tight by string.