"deadlands" poems
A poem I wrote for you
Lays torn into shredded little pieces
A pile of fragmented sentiments
Left over from a time when I gave a ****
When I believed in you
When a whisper from you
Breathed hope into this
Empty tank heart of mine
Now all I see is the abstract
Of broken promises
And the left over optimism
Of a fool hearted girl
Who wanted to bathe in
Every one of your empty dreams
You speak of deserts
Well you create them
You are my deadlands
A place where everything goes to die
You who I love with every breath
Why do you take everything from me?
My love, my hope, my dreams, and desire
You **** everything good in me.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
The company had told the
Little soldier where to go,
Jut down the street,
Not far at all...
Turned out to be an adventure,
All its own,
It took on its own breath,
its own face,
its own figure,
its own voice,
its own life!
You know those days when,
After it all transpires,
You look back,
And it's its own thing...
This entailed,
Most likely chronologically,
But with the arrival,
back to where I started,
Twas the same thought as,
The chariot approacheth,
O'er the Horizon,
In the deadlands,
On the line,
Lulling her to sleep,
Then along it came,
Not the vessel,
But the urn,
Of Being!
All dressed in hats; except one,
they wandered into,
the frequently adjacent pub,
They were striving,
Starving,
Well worth a sonder,
As I commented,
One responded curtly,
They all did in their own way,
But the Black-Fedora-ed,
Burgundy-Suited man,
Cigaro in hand,
Said he liked my backpack,
(It isn't even mine!)
The last bus approaches, The bus driver calls me back,
Wrong transfer,
I have a feeling,
That he was the most,
Diligent guy they had,
And that I was me,
And I mistook one thing,
That me being able to be there,
would be a first for him,
The john Wayne of Pain,
What's more painful than being,
The maniac bus driver,
Honked at almost every stop,
Some kids got on the wrong way,
Told 'em it was the other way,
Cantankerous old bebop behind the wheel,
Notches another disappointment,
In his leather sides.
As the bus made the,
bewildering turn to everyone else,
I was used to it,
Better for me,
Confusion rose like hot air,
But I thanked the mad, mad
mad, mad,
mad,
MAD!
Driver of,
The crazed,
City Night,
I walked,
With my music playing,
crossed paths with the only,
homeless guy I ever see.
Thinking back I should've
Given him the pass,
To get somewhere,
actually I tried one time,
He told me he didn't like,
the bus,
On that nightly traveler,
He went Cold.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
salt winds scour the craggy deadlands, unrelenting.
no one, not ghost nor scribe, will recount the stories hidden therein.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC