There he stands.
He stands where the crows refuse to land
and the tumbleweed tumble around.
Where green is a foreign concept to the flora
that rises from the ashen ground
and the whole field has the atmosphere of a dead place,
forgotten by time.
He stands like a scarecrow that has outgrown it's post
Where most would fall, he stands tall,
like a lamp post, that provides no light at all.
His expression is aloof, but not in an oblivious way.
As if to say that his stoic-ness portrays a tortured wisdom
that makes his knowledge look more alike
to a ball and chain than a virtue or asset.
His composure is limp as if the glue that bands him together
is weeping away and the heavens push down upon him
with both hands.

His palms are loose, his shoulders are sails that he no longer flies.
His hair hangs loose and grey, framing dead and bloodshot eyes.
His jaw hangs but his lips remain tightly knit,
never to part and split their seams
lest you learn anything at all from him.
He has no jouyous thing to share with you.
No pleasant memories that he would care
to cast upon the wall like the beam of a film reel.
The insights he has to teach the world are ones
that would be massly rejected out of repulsion or denial.
You gain nothing from letting this man, most vile,
teach you about the world or society or anything likewise.
You lose something instead.
You lose the peace of mind that you take for granted
as you go about your daily grind.
You lose your ignorance, but only by using it
as the altar upon which to sacrifice your bliss.
He learned much and he certainly learned this.
He eventually started to learn about the things that matter
and by consequence he learned that in credence with them,
his life was a lie by comparison.
He learned that if we are woven by the spinners of the comos
than we will al be found threadbare.
And so, by lack of care, he pas payed the toll.
Filling the spaces of his mind,
and emptying the contents of his soul.

He is the Hollow Man.
He stands far from us in his distant field
knowing well that such a mind
is a much more dangerous weapon to wield.
If you see him whilst on your way,
at least trust me when I say,
that you do yourself a service by staying
far, far away.

On this night
The king-god Zeus does battle
With the titans of old.
The sky is livened
By his hurled bolts of lightening.
Their targets simply
Unseen to the mortal eye.

The calm is shattered
By the clash of thunderbolt
On stone and molten rock.
Our protector, he remains.
Though many have forgotten him
To myth, legend, and lore
We have forgotten the safety
That his lightning strikes provide.

On sunny days
Cloudless nights
We are allowed to forget his ways.
But on this night
In these dark and stormy hours,
The true believers remember.
That Zeus has watched over us
For millennia. Battling an unseen
War, waged in the tales of old
But carried out before our eyes.

We must recall that he,
The one King-God, Zeus, has
Watched over us dutifully since time
Before time before memory.
He has kept us safe
From the titans of old.
And the lightening strikes
Remind us of stories untold

I swam in your seas
Dived depths to plunder treasures
From the dark ocean floor
Felt the tumult of your soul crash over me
Floated with you on calm blue waters warmed by the sun
Lapping waves rhythmically revealing belly, breast, pearlescent scales, hair red as flame.

Your lips formed a half-smile
As you sang your siren song
And I surrendered myself to an eternity of pleasures
Now I am cast adrift, rudderless
No horizon in sight
Endlessly searching for a glimpse of you.

It fed on logic
No ecstasy
It involved
All of the
Slave
And the throne
As the lady continued to soar
In the sorrow of her life
Came the day
She met another man
His gentle love and care
Was like patch warmth
In the frozen hay
Day by day
She felt addicted
In loosing her parent's pride
And then came the time
When in emptiness
She could do nothing
But call upon God
She didn't want them
To blame
Either of the men
Instead
She desired to be written
They all read her suicide note every day

It gets... agonizing.
So, very agonizing, and she wonders through the days,
"will it ever end?"
Perhaps, maybe, the divinity of nature
struck down on the undeserving.
A mistake is not a lifetime
                            but a good portion of it
and deep down she knows she couldn't
but each day regrets her decisions
and rubs lamps on nightstands littered with lotto tickets.
To make matters worse, or better,
all around her are visions of joy,
                            happiness, love?
And by accepting her fate,
she embraces, and acknowledges,
that the deed was surely done,
and life in death.

Just a simple scrap of paper, stained with his blood, dried red,
It was picked up by a passer- by. It’s author newly dead.
The victims in the towers had been pulverized by stone.
And now could be identified by DNA alone.
For about a decade after, his note was saved, unread,
The M.E. was too busy, bones took precedence instead.

Reflecting pools, the well of souls, are where the towers stood.
There’s a garden of remembrance and that’s all well and good.
His widow and his daughters hung his picture on the wall.
It was like a wound reopened when they finally got the call.

She thought he had died quickly; the second plane had struck his floor.
He worked in the South Tower way up high on eighty four.
“We identified this by the blood, it matched his DNA.”
She stared numbly at the note he wrote that sad September day.

You may view the blood stained note and the message that he wrote
In the Nine Eleven museum in Manhattan
When he'd spent the time we're given,
paper saved him from oblivion.
Now his tragic end will never be forgotten.