Sentient street,
As we walk through the gates of sentience,
Like a child,I quirked my head,
Left~right and back with innocence,
To glimpse at their seemly slums;a nimble haul of dread,
Tucked me,as I gander the miscellany artistry,
The winsome combs on their chambers,
By builders and framers,
For all;but the aesthetics I knew belonged to the affluent,
An erudition I needed not to imbibe as a student,

Oblivious of myself;I spotted their melancholic eyes in their inscriptions,
And read the histories and encryptions,
The stares they gave tremored my heart,
And tore the arteries apart,
My soul wept for their bereavement but tears was deficit in my eyes,

As I march to the yard of his repose;I said"A journey we shall all embark"
Gawking at the annexation of other chambers,as grief berserks,
I got there,

I stood meters afar and stared,
As the priest blessed the yard;And prayed for his soul,
Conferring him into the bossom of his maker,
And instructing the digger afterwards;to dump him into the hole,
His folks quaker,
And bade him their farewell with flowers,
In their last hour,

But as they fetch sands and stones to wrap him,
In their faces I saw grim,
When the diggers spat and slapped;his coffin with stones and shovels,
For this has been their long awaited muscle,
And in deligence;they deliver,
"This journey I will embark too"I said,
As I stood in my shiver,
And withdrew and left in mopes.


Sentient Street
©Historian E.Lexano

I am the master of my destiny,
But it’s difficult to know what I’m destined to be,
So I mastered the skill of poetry in hopes to invest in me.
Thus the power would be vested in me,
And I wouldn’t have to submit to anyone else
To get the best of me.

My words are disturbed,
My belligerent inflictions are deserved,
My fictitious non-fictions are just misheard,
My religious depictions are called absurd,
They rage savagely as they say, “Blasphemy.”
To convey opinions is a task for me,
But if you’re asking me to speak rationally,
Don’t be mad at me, when I ration radically.
My passion was passionately
Passed to me by a God that has to be a part of me,
Or at least partially inside the art part of me.
If He is an entity totally apart from me,
Then why does this feeling remain in my veins?
And please do explain these pains in my
Feet, hands and scalp around my brain.
You say it’s because I’ve been walking all day,
Trying to find my way because I’m lost always,
And all the ways that I take
Bring me back to the same place.
So I sit and write all day until my fingers ache,
In hopes to eradicate my hate and vacate
From this block, city and state
And cop pretty estates.
But writer’s block stops my speedy escape,
I scratch my head until it bleeds to my face.
Still you choose to have hate for my stigmatic fate,
And feel you must take from my ecstatic state,
Just because you frustrate from my enigmatic style,
Then throw sticks and stones to shatter my smile.
Your words won’t hurt,
And flipping the bird don’t work,
And you would never bother to flip through my works.
You just flap your lips and let the whip go berserks,
Until it strips through my soul after it rips through my shirt.

Society is real quick to crucify,
But in this life
It’s do or die
And I refuse to choose to die.
I remember I used to lie
Because my truth was too shy,
But now I’m used to life,
And realize there’s no use to lie.
As I lie on the crucifix these cruel critics fixed upon me,
Just know that I wrote it how it was supposed to be.
Even when I die my fans will be excited to know it’s me,
Resurrected anytime they decide to recite my poetry.

i love thee
  poetry.

whose hands, steadfast,
   catatonic waters past
  end freely in dusk,
  carrying me over
  life's ferocious waters,
if not death.

whose slender body is
  to make love, make fire,
  sinking in a leitmotif of
   seraphs unknowing sepulchers,

  which ails me so in the night
  drunk without stars shall i seek
  the dharma burning in the bone,
   the fanfare of mind berserks
     the thorough ablution of
   the mind's useless wanderings,

  i love thee poetry,
   its rescue, its curse,
  its waysides - i love them all
    nothing but shorter lifelessly,
  a brief night ended in the
    bat of an eye.