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.

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.

Riding alone along that famous desert road,
Heading west for a new page,
To reap what could be sowed,
A opportunity rare in this day and age.

Eyes growing weary,
And like a mirage it does appear,
A place to make the head unbleary,
Where one can cast aside one's doubts and fears.

So alone in the journey it makes knees nearly buckle,
A sirens call is heeded,
Tempting with sultry eyes and unspoken promises.

In a haze stumbling forward,
Not aware of the dangers present,
That the boat was being lead shoreward,
To be dashed upon a jagged outcropping's crescent.

It is here one gets ******,
Like a fish when it realized it's been hooked,
That the risks are everywhere,
Like stumbling into a minefield,
Not recognizing the risks until halfway across.

It's enough to bring the brakes to a screeching halt,
The sudden sound warbling through the empty desert air,
Kicking up clouds of sandand salt,
Seeing to one's horror that there is nothing really there.

It's enough to ***** off even the most steady,
To be tricked by the wraiths of the land,
One had to speed across these parts ever at the ready,
Otherwise they invite disaster and ruin,
As they oft walk hand-in-hand.

So tear through these deadlands,
Never look back,
And don't need the sirens call,
None of it is real.

So tear through these deadlands,
Never try to get to the shack,
It doesn't contain what you think you lack,
Just the fires and poisons of your enemies,
Those enemies of your past.

salt winds scour the craggy deadlands, unrelenting.

no one, not ghost nor scribe, will recount the stories hidden therein.

I didn't know how to do right by you.
As you dug the answer beneath every one of my sins, virtues, and charms.

I am now standing amidst dusty dirt,
at this quarry of knowledge, as the vessel I had been made that which had then been unmade to self-standing me.

Unlike any other so close, even after a massacre of my being, I will teach you there's love in everything you know to hate,
and to forgive all you've learned to regret.
Slowly building testiment of integrity
in deadlands that could have once housed a castle.