Time keeps on ticking
Memories are sticking
To our minds like glue
Were our friendships true?
Or were they just a show
Of people too scared
To tell each other no?
 
Good things we did
And the times that we sinned
Moments we were ashamed
Days we dreamed of our fame
Strangers screaming our name
But will it be on a billboard
Or etched onto a tombstone?

Only the innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but Time.
Eventually I will grow old
And forget how to rhyme.
Life moves on by too fast
It feels like a horrific crime
When Death steals the minutes
That could have been mine.

Since when were you told
That life doesn't have an end?
I can hear the laughter
Of death's dearest friend
Who goes by the name of Time.
It is Death with whom he dines
Devouring all the futures
Of the innocent and the beautiful
Whose destinies were dutifully kept.
Though they left behind loved ones
With hearts that eternally wept.

The mason chipped flecks
from slate with a nail,
each tiny grey speck
carving a brief tale
that strips a life’s fame
down to the merest detail:
two dates, one name,
in letters faint and pale.
It asks One to bless
them who’ve passed through the veil,
to grant them their rest
’til resurrection prevails.
The mason too is long gone,
none live who his name still bewail;
he lies beneath the stone
that another past mason regaled.

Asphalt night
by red dawn’s light
descends into deepest fog.

A glimmer of bright
on the edge of sight
shimmers blue: I begin to walk.

In a cathedral of stone, stark and white,
with a lone statue from long before.
It stands in a niche, with a soft spotlight
shining on its medieval decor.

A ****** Mary, with her Mona Lisa smile,
looks down from her pedestal high.
In quiet, I stand and gaze at her for a while.
Did I just hear her audibly sigh?

Her gilded robes are weathered, cracked,
the once bright paint’s faded and spare,
many scars made plain by shadows cast
by a red circle of candles lit by prayers.

What crises has this scarred Mary seen?
Her sighs echo ours: This statue’s hallowed
by the pains the prayerful to her bring.
I hail thee, marred Mary, full of our sorrows.

pink blossoms – in the forest of thoughts; I seem
so lost. as a storyteller, I must have consumed a library,
every day is a memory of all that you’ve learned, and
the scriptures on your skin of the Word

where true prophecy reigns – the taste of one’s future
rains, watering faith’s garden. you beautiful tragedy,
making blissful mistakes – life hurts and stresses you
out with heavy thoughts of tomorrow, that you seem
too scared to even let down your hair; it's an anchor

yet in these pink blossoms, any piece of hope blossoms
like a blush on your face – when the slightest beauty
smiles back at your worried face… weary child,
go and pray.

When I was a kid in the Virginia mountains, we had a train line that ran yonder through our quiet little town, a few miles from our house.

In the warm summer months we’d have the wooden sash windows wide open, their screens strummed by the breeze and humming a hushed lullaby.

Each night, lying in bed, I heard the remote rolling roar of the train when it blew its whistle as it neared our town.

Every night, as the dusk fell, it came: the slow rush and roar of iron engine wheels that glide along on roads of steel. The engine‘s sacred heart was stoked white hot, fed by black coal dug from those rolling hills.

Then the hush of night lifted for a rolling moment: The engineer pulled the whistle cord — releasing a long plaintive chord of a melancholy choir, pitched just so, for to sound softly through the coal-hearted hills of the Blue Ridges as they echoed in quiet reply.

It was my signal: It’s time to sleep.

The nightly ritual chuffed on. Boxcars rumbling on rugged rails. A distant engine roaring by in steam and stoked fire. Waves of lightning bugs that rose and fell in the sticky summer night while foxfire faintly glowed blue in the brambled underbrush. High above the rolling green hills, between the watchful blue mountains, the stars arced past on their tracks of old.

I’ve long lived far from home. Longer still has the now lonesome line been turning to rust. Now I know why the whistle wailed: It was wistfully aware that its last stop was near.

But I still hear the ghostly wail of the whistle past, as the slow steam train of memory glides through the dusk of my soul.

Inspiration "The man who views the world at 50 the same as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life,” - Muhammad Ali

I've done some things in my past I'm not particularly fond of. I was just a lost soul trapped in the underworld. Surrounded by some demons I would say they were possessed. I grew up around drugs, gangs and seen all sorts of mess.

I was born a ******* brought into this world out of wedlock. With no father figure I feel I was doomed from the start. My thirst for knowledge made me come off as kind of odd cause in a den of thieves I only wanted to serve God.

Yet I was young, I was naiive and so I fell to temptations, that's what happens when you're green in a world controlled by Satan. I put myself in situations where I had to make a choice one would build me up and the other would destroy.

I knew I was doing wrong when I thought cops were my enemies but failed to see the ones who pulled my strings were fallen entities.

I traveled far into the underworld
but some how made it out and when I did there was God who said my child I never doubt.

So yea I've done some things in my past I'm not particularly fond of but now I am free and if you only know the old me you no longer know me... Peace be unto you.

Copyright. Sean Antonio Tyson

1 Peter 1:14: "So you must live as God's obedient children. Don't slip back into your old ways of living to satisfy your own desires".

Come Back to Me,
a whispered chant, 
a taize prayer, a funeral dirge, 
a mournful, somber sound 
played on the monitor­ above my head.
My mouth curls mirthfully,
a mischievous grin - 
"Hello Sister Death".

My dearest sister, 
we fought tooth and­ claw,
and play dangerous games; 
squealing with glee -
"You can'­t catch me!"  

You pinched me, it’s true,
make me confess, lay bare my soul,
down to the bone and yet dearly loved.
A lonely wallflower, at our last dance,
as I waltzed across the surgical floor;

Now, you sit silent, somber, still and stern,
serious today, 
no teasing, no more games;
your soft voice­ whispers, 

"Release the pain, embrace it, let it go,
it will so­othe your soul, serene and satisfied. 
You're ready to drift into the cosmic flow 
let it ta­ke you home, return unto Him."

A shot of pain rips through my we­ary frame,
let it cleanse my soul and set my spirit free; 
my body will fade, dissolve, turn to stardust;
while my soul ascends to cosmic flow, 
that Divine force,
the source, brought me here,
let it carry me anywhere, 
beyond compare.

Thorny vines, Earth's embrace, 
tear ­at my skin.
My heart beats wildly, 
caught within the cosmic flow­.
This crimson clicker calms the cruelest pain,
it stills my spinning thoughts,
a moment’s reprieve - time to think.

I know it’s time.  And I thank God
for bringing me here.  But just -
One more day, 
a delightful detour,
a zany journey to the zoo, 
bird book in hand,
a weighty who’s who, 
you can do it.

“Hey Sis, not today! 
Let's play - Hide and Seek!”

I'm **** at prayer
But I praise that your spirit
Prays for me pretty near everywhere
Deep within
Dancing along a deliberate river,
A dirge, no, delightful tunes of a violin
Slow, melodious
Song coming deep from my cellar
Seeking to touch my soul
Shutup, Be still
Sing in unison with the earth
Silence.  Breath.  Pray.