"masons" poems
Before you criticize me too soon, I think you should spare some seconds and answer a simple question to yourself...
If Shahjahan loved Mumtaz Mahal so much, why he had a harem of wives to use at his own pleasure?
While I agree that the Taj Mahal is arguably the most extraordinarily beautiful monument in the world, I don't agree upon the fact that it was built as a tomb of love. It is just a symbol of madness if you asked me. An emperor's insecure feeling to get his name registered in the history books. While it may be one of the most beautiful architectural monument, it was built by over 20,000 architects, craftsmen, masons and engineers who took over 16 years to build the magnificent building.
He got this apparently high & prestigious monument of love built but everything that the Emperor did was not pleasant at all.
° The lavishly living Mughal Emperor spent all his - his subjects' money into building this monument of love instead of keeping his subjects well-fed.
° Mumtaz Mahal might have been the luckiest woman to have died and got such a marvelous building built as her mausoleum but she died giving birth to her & Shahjahan's 17th offspring and then Shahjahan who had uncountable other wives was inspired by her demise apparently to undertake what is termed as the biggest project in history build the costliest monument proclaiming his rule.
° The arrogant - falsely proud lover - Mughal emperor didn't know that what he thought to be looked at as the greatest symbol of love will be criticized by some poet in his own land nearly 375 years later. The insane Mughal Emperor got all the builders of the Taj Mahal's fingers cut-off of so that there could be no other Taj Mahal.
But Aurangzeb, his & Mumtaz Mahal's son overthrew his power when Shahjahan got older and locked him up in a jail at the other end of Yamuna river where the emperor then died a sad old lovelorn bedlamite person in prison. Aurangzeb was the exact opposite of his dad, he showed religious intolerance and his habits drove the empire towards its doom after his death.
But let me think this way; when I look at any picture of the Taj Mahal, what I get the first thing in mind is this: Such a CRAZY emperor who got such a beautiful monument of Egotism built!
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
Losing a tail
Is like losing a rudder
Like losing a ballast
Stability must be found elsewhere
As a quadruped there are four points of contact
A biped has only two
How do we replace that stability?
With aspiration
~ Extinct ~
**** erectus*
and
**** neanderthalensis*
~ Extant ~
Hominids
Great Apes
Primarily lumbering along on all fours
Quadrupedal
Except Us
**** sapiens*
What mechanism allowed for bipeds?
Natural selection?
Or a naturally selected collective vision
Through collective perspiration
Art is used to mine dream-time
Inspiring the masons among us
The art is the plan
The architecture is built upon
And the builders perspiration
Leads to the built environment
How do you cap it?
Egyptians used a capstone
Aspiration
Leading to
Inspiration
Leading to
Perspiration
Leading to
A
Spire
Naturally
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
I lied by the sea,
far away from the ebb-
uncared, untraceable,
a heap among the mounds.
You came to me first,
And then joined in she,
both squatted by me,
started the play with me.
Never can I forget,
the first caress-
I know not, yours or hers,
but it was like heaven.
Your juvenile dreams,
naive imaginations,
bestowed on my otiose self,
by your seasoned skills.
Grain upon grains,
both made me proud.
Not conforming to a flaw,
meticulous maven masons.
When your hands tired,
she backed you up.
While she was ******
you tended her to health.
Finally, I stood tall-
an Olympian castle.
Both were beguiled,
I would never be happier.
And, then came the storm,
Satanic vibes infested the air.
I couldn’t fathom what befell,
you were furious, she was crying.
Raised voices, clenched fists,
intimate moments castaway,
I stood a meek witness,
while a relationship was severed.
Came along the lunar surge,
I was wiped away without a trace.
Both stood distant from the other,
watching me fall, filled with remorse.
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 9:15 AM UTC
The decaying mansions of English language
Rot and recede
into teenage grasses
with each unspoken year
The hired help have left their hair unmown and surrendered their uniform dress
Content with the neglect of nature
taking its timely course
When the architects and master masons of linguistics
Survey their forgotten plans in the heaven of English literature
They are not dismayed
but patiently sit and sit
The pristine edifices of the classics
Once grand and clad in deferential brick
Stand scaffolded and unread
The doors unlocked, ajar and hopelessly inviting
Into the library of the English canon
The dusty cloak on the carpets of grammar
Sheets thrown over the disused armchairs of archaic words
Echoing the plink of the out-of-tune pianoforte of the perfectly crafted short story
Bathrooms of formal poetry
With the rusty plumbing of metre and rhyme
Whereas the temporary outhouses,
hastily arranged huts of slang and idiom
are adorned by the living grasses of new forms,
creepers of half remembered dreams
mulching leaves of half formed thoughts
forests of half forgotten loves
writhing in living incompleteness
Which will in turn harden and fossilize
And we can then rue the passing of our once organic lingo
Dec 14, 2009
Dec 14, 2009 at 10:18 AM UTC
#
*Not all was lost
to the beast,
nor to the silence
that sheltered it.
For deeper still,
beneath the rubble
of unspoken years,
the child remained.
Bruised, yes..
but not extinguished.
Hidden;
but not erased.
A breath still moved,
a spark unclaimed
by the darkness.
The beast does not feed only
on the wound itself,
but on the hollow it leaves behind.
Gaslighting, scapegoating, silence..
all these are its masons;
carving out a chamber in the soul
where the beast makes its abode.
There, in the aloneness of the child,
it feeds from within,
claiming the silence as its fortress;
the emptiness as its throne.
And the door creaks again..
not always the first door,
but another..
a new figure cashing in
on the void they sense.
Their entry feels like company,
even love,
yet it is only continuance...
a repetition of the first harm.
Worse still when the creak
is painted with a smile,
when exploitation wears
the mask of care--
The abode deepens,
and the beast settles further
into the soul.
Yet the fortress cannot hold forever.
The silence cannot smother forever.
Even the grave-dirt of denial
cannot bury it whole.
For the child endures
where walls collapse,
and the smallest cry
outlives the loudest lie.
The beast devoured much,
but not all.
And in what survives,
the future breathes;
a testimony,
a beginning,
a voice
that will not be hushed.*
#
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 3:44 PM UTC
FIVE-AND-TWENTY years have gone
Since old William pollexfen
Laid his strong bones down in death
By his wife Elizabeth
In the grey stone tomb he made.
And after twenty years they laid
In that tomb by him and her
His son George, the astrologer;
And Masons drove from miles away
To scatter the Acacia spray
Upon a melancholy man
Who had ended where his breath began.
Many a son and daughter lies
Far from the customary skies,
The Mall and Eades's grammar school,
In London or in Liverpool;
But where is laid the sailor John
That so many lands had known,
Quiet lands or unquiet seas
Where the Indians trade or Japanese?
He never found his rest ashore,
Moping for one voyage more.
Where have they laid the sailor John?
And yesterday the youngest son,
A humorous, unambitious man,
Was buried near the astrologer,
Yesterday in the tenth year
Since he who had been contented long.
A nobody in a great throng,
Decided he would journey home,
Now that his fiftieth year had come,
And "Mr. Alfred' be again
Upon the lips of common men
Who carried in their memory
His childhood and his family.
At all these death-beds women heard
A visionary white sea-bird
Lamenting that a man should die;
And with that cry I have raised my cry.
1.7k
The wall came first
then ivy grew.
Him wrought from stone,
her suckling dew
between the crevices and cracks
of broken brick and tattered slats.
All separated were their lives,
yet intertwined to hypnotize
all but a masons’ knowing eyes—
a wall of green, the best disguise.
A hundred years could pass and see
that verdant slab so beautifully.
Yet time ticks on;
reveals what’s true—
when he does crumble,
she will too.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
Where are the late night painters and poets and dreamers
The 24 hour coffee shops with chipped saucers and street musicians and black and white photo opportunities
The 3:07 am philosophers and talkers and ******** this and **** that "I aint' workin' for the man" protest fighters
Where are the push back the day
I'm not finished with the night
Loners and monsters and strangers
Because normal isn't working and humans are disgusting
So I would rather walk alone
Than be part of a population wearing blinders pretending nothings wrong with living in a world that isn't safe for our sisters and our brothers sitting on the wrong side of a broken justice system
Its safer on the streets for rapists and murders
Than a girl in a short skirt or a man born with dark skin
Where are the architects of love and the masons of kindness and the engineers of empathy
Who's gonna save us when heaven turns out to be empty
And there's no one there to wash away the blood off our hands for our crimes and sins against humanity
Without the late night painters and poets and dreamers
The 24 hour coffee shops become ghost towns and the world crumbles
And the only thing beautiful for humanity to do is give itself to death
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 2:17 AM UTC
I turned to my *****
as I lit my cigarette.
Hella stressed
I said
"Ain't life a *****
We trapped
between the rich and the poor
trying to make it to one
and stay away from the other.
Our people step on each other
to get above one another.
Instead of extending a hand
to help a brother.
Do you know
what they did?
I know
what they did?!
They brainwashed us
to **** each other.
If we aren't killing each other
they plotting
to lock us up with each other
to do a long bid.
The cops, the judges
and the politicians are kin.
They don't want to
give us a chance to win.
They got us separated by
religion, race, and ****** orientation.
To worsen the complication
they got the police waiting
to **** a black male with no contemplation.
Because they say
we are likely
to start a confrontation.
There's no peace.
When I look around
all I see is hatred.
Jesus, Ghandi, and MLK
told us to turn the other cheek.
Will we ever face it?
Forces reaching our soul
through the airwaves and spaces.
All I see is satan.
All I see is masons.
All I see is the land of the broken,
,lost and forsaken.
We ball up our fist.
Trying to make it through the day
without getting too ******
Wishin that we could just quit.
**** man,
Ain't life a *****
No disrespect to women.
This is how I'm feelin.
If she call herself one
then she shouldn't be offended.
If she do then
she see how we ain't winning.
That's why every night
she's up in the strip club sinning.
To catch a ***** slippin
To catch a ***** trippin
To catch a ***** trickin
off his last.
She will give him some ***
Because she need that cash.
**** a paycheck.
She knows this money comes fast.
If he's trippin hard enough
She will run his pockets rough.
Until his soul is gone
And the repo man
is taking his truck.
With every ****** interaction
She loses a piece of herself
in the temporary satisfaction.
Like her soul is being extracted
and if she meets her soulmate
he wouldn't be as attracted
to her soul
because it's all in fragments
Her mind has grown stagnant.
******* it.
Ain't life a *****
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
The Church in its awesome majesty
Looked down, from over the hill,
From faith, to hope, to travesty
It stood, and is standing still,
So proud in its fine regalia
Its ritual, and never the least,
Its potent God who would wield his rod
Deter the jaws of the beast.
The Bishop of Saint Ignatius Church
Was a proud and holy man,
Who wouldn’t suffer the jibes of fools
From Rome to Afghanistan,
And certainly not those down the hill
In the new Masonic Lodge,
That beastly, secret doctrine that
He advised his flock to dodge.
He’d stand at the steps of his church and stare
Down at the barbarians,
He hated Lodges, he hated Mosques
And Rastafarians,
‘There shouldn’t be anyone else but me,
I hold the eternal God,
What gods they worship could never be,
For they’re all distinctly odd.’
While down at the Lodge of the Masons
They were cool with their golden rule,
They had to believe in a god as such,
But how, it was up to you.
For some would practice the Baptist faith,
And some Presbyterian,
While some enrolled in the Primitive state
Were a type of Wesleyan.
There was only a single Catholic
And he wore a glued on rug,
He wanted to still be young at heart,
Was known as the Grand HumBug,
The Antidiluvian Mason’s Guild
Was the name he’d chosen himself,
The others differed, but he was keen,
And he was the one with wealth.
Their God was known as the Architect,
They carried the masons tools,
The set square set them apart from all
The disbelievers and fools.
They worked on their secret rituals
And kept a goat at the back,
For leading a blindfold novice in
And guarding the Lodge from attack.
The Bishop heard that a Catholic
Was leading the Masons there,
He fumed, choked on his rhetoric, but
Was heard to firmly declare,
‘I will not shelter a wayward sheep
Who has taken to ways I hate,
The only fate for a traitor here
Is to excommunicate!’
He gathered a dozen priests to march
With candles, down to the Hall,
Surrounded the base heretic’s Lodge
And named HumBug in his call,
Sprinkled his holy water ‘til
It fizzed, and gave off a smell,
Doused his candle and closed his book,
Consigning the man to Hell!
But Humbug patted his glued on rug
Went out, untethered the goat,
He let it loose on the dozen Priests,
It butted the Bishop’s coat,
They ran in confusion up the street,
To the church, set up on the hill,
While the goat was hard at the Bishop’s heels
Like a demon released from Hell.
It butted the Bishop’s altar and
It charged, knocked over the font,
Scattered the pews for the devil’s dues
In a hellfire sacrament,
While HumBug muttered he might end up
In Hell, with his Mason’s sect,
But the Bishop’s God, had failed with his rod
In a clash with his Architect!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
Ethereal Theories and Rituals
By Rosicrucian's and Masons
And The Knights Templar
Secrets whispered in listening Ears
Bound to Silence by unknown Fears
Symbolic Accoutrements Adorn
Compass, Cross, Aprons and Horn
Secret Rituals done in Dark Shadows
Robed Members with Incense and Candles
Perform ancient Tomes with Canticles
Reciting Century old Chants of Words
Enarmed with Pike Shield and Sword
Perpetuated through the Centuries
All Carried out in total Secrecy.....1/19/15
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
How do they call you,
those who’ve passed through unmarked
twin doors for the shy
side of one century?
Is it as Nicholas
of Myra,
or of Bari,
or as an unlocated saint,
working wonders in
this home of trim white-stone
block, with three tiers of black-
arches, frowning up at
the merciless
grids behind?
Rows, rows, rows, they float on
glassy, steel-blue oceans,
and these oceans will fall in
violent, cascading, millennial
waves unlike any with foam
caps that once lapped
the rocky coast of lost Lycia--
your see
our maps don’t contain,
and our licit hosannas won’t reach.
Who are they
who pray here?
Bakers, sailors, bankers,
all whose sighs
rise with a torrent of immigrant chants
liaison rafters
fracture in echo-song,
the old coinage that plies your favor.
To which patron can they turn
when your cross crowns not
the work of masons
but one day’s
rubble,
a tongue without a bell,
the charred
relics of unnameable acts?
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 1:16 PM UTC
The architect of fate we are
Onus is on us to strengthen the foundation
To build a structure, concrete, yet accommodating
And mend the cracks as soon as they appear
Sway with a rhythm of the residents
Masons fortifying the walls around
The dialogues reverberating all around
It’s not a house, where love does not reveal
Build monument of love, protected from nature’s fury
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
One eye lined a rippling void in our favor
Two lights aimed to dither coherence astray
A spark may be one
A pyre, another
Two methods by which we may aptly narrate
These volumes which artifice rendered impassive
Some lifetimes ago
As if carved out of stone
Upon faces that masons could not replicate
We taxed ourselves harsh by indulging old spirits
But graver the crime was to give them a name
The deepest transgression of all, incorporeal
Our memories in the end gave us away
Yes, nostalgia seeps in through the gaps in our logic
To shepherd the currents beneath those blue waves
As if tides could be altered by such visitation
And oceans stood frozen with forces concealed by
Some gravities borne of celestial weight
Reluctant to wake and depart Colorado
My surrogate mother
Our canvas to paint
Expressions whipped dry by the skirt of her leather
And eardrums wrung pierced by the crags and the scree
If I leave now this portal may vanish forever
I could leave my sins here in the chill of the Springs
Release them down mineshaft chutes long since abandoned
In futile attempts to abscond the unclean
And rise to leave haunts of offenses unstated
To come crawling back from the dead
Southbound with me
Hold out, I was told
With arms to receive
You'll make sure to keep your hands steady for me
I'm soaked to the core with my soul and voice breaking
With eyes for your heart and its formless cascade
And my pail with dozens of holes to redeem
An abundance of squalls brewed behind both those seams
The light crosses your path
And you won't look away
When I question by which laws such mirrors are made
And it all seems so cruel that we're drawn here to suffer
To be teased and transfixed by what glimmers remain
I can drum up what strengths I have left to ignite you
I'll shout even louder when you forget your name
I'll relearn every way that I've known how to love you
But we're taught to process what we cannot maintain
Yes, our hearts are irreparably torn in this way
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC
there is principle, there is mad luck on the streets
but then again, i have neither one.
i assume the idleness of poles underneath the roof of a cafe in Poblacion
and wonder where all my poems go,
the value they impose -- only there's implosion and not so much sense
so i go out to seek tenderly in the night,
a cheap moon trapped underneath the bottle of a pilsner
as i hear one of the patrons call out
my solitude like a ********** on all fours;
one afternoon pursues a following.
i have wasted my time writing and stopping
to watch stray hounds pant and
**** on the hot asphalt of Plaridel.
the papers retch at tyrannies.
hands for mechanisms configured to
a heady bias of probabilities.
the house next to me is being
overhauled and i imagine the incredulity
of things not their own meanings.
a pair of old Chuck Taylors on the bedspread, a decrepit bed for making love
or passing time or wasting the night away.
somewhere, someone is reading my poems and weeping at the cadence.
most do not notice -- it was the caprice of things not mine to commandeer.
the sound of stone masons hammering
boulders double the melancholia.
the deliberate sieving of sand and stone
felt like sandpaper air.
the matutinal sky split into dire condition
much like mine: becoming and unbecoming.
all the ******** are out in the streets
with ladies wuthering in high strides.
all the priests are in their rendezvous,
killing buddha heads.
the police have silenced the sirens
and behind pairs of old navy blue slacks
and mobiles covered with dust,
the captives scream mercy.
all the ATMs drone the pither of metal mouths.
a widow in Bocaue holding a picture
of the departed.
i look up and see my face in the sky:
if only i could **** the man and be the man,
fill his shoes with flesh, his movements my emulation, his enigmas my clarity, his day old denims my best dress.
more than beer and cigarettes have done me in and more to myself much no less
than a cat hit by a speeding bicycle
somewhere in Padre Faura.
madness hurries like a lover and hands me
a picture of the moon.
i've got something and that's good enough
as the police leave the grime of times
and evict drunks off the streets of Malolos,
as the priests step into the showers, naked
and bloodied just like the ordinary man,
as the cat that was hit
by a bicycle
goes back to the dark
licking the salt off the wound,
bone fractured, still alive on the hot roof.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
In your name, my country, I write today
For all the voices that cannot speak
For all the voices that are silenced
For all the wailing children unheard
For the mullahs and the pandits and the priests
For the politicians and the newsmakers
For the consumers and sharers of “news”
For all the women who bleed onto to the dry earth
For all the animals who are tortured
For the weak who toil in the burning sun
For the strong who drive their air-conditioned SUVs
For the singers, poets and artists
For the farmers, masons and carpenters
For the babies who will know only this way
For the old who remember how things were
For the ones caught in between
For the children and women *****
For the rapists drunk on power
For the believers and the non-believers
For all of us and all of them
In your name, my country, I weep
In your name, my country, I hope
In your name, my country, I believe
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
brick laying word masons
work like Hemingway.
one clean, clear word
after the other
creates one true sentence,
then two, until
you’re drenched in sweat.
a day’s work
done.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
I was a mason and am meant for daily wages,
With me are helpers, young, old, men and women,
And we are the builders, but we do not own the building.
Yet, we own the building till the last patch of the masonry.
We sleep in the storey; dry our clothes, cook our food;
We scatter our belongings and we rule the building a while.
People think we’re just masons, but we’re the kings of the construction.
They say it’s their home or shop to make money for their ‘statuses,
But who is the owner of the property,
And no one on earth is the owner of anything.
On morning we brush our teeth; clean our bowels;
We clean our body; we fill our bowels;
And we take our tools to break and cement the walls.
The sun sets that we shall crawl to our beds,
And our body twisted to stretch out from pain.
Every day we the kings till the last patch of our work,
And no one questions our stay under the roof.
We shall permit even the ‘owner’ of the roof.
We become ‘untouchable’ after our last stroke.
We make them ‘comfortable’ for their stay with our sweat,
And they threw coins at our sweat.
Yet we have not lost our kingship, for we shall regain it
When we’re called for another construction.
We’re happy with our kingship ‘cause we are kings of many homes,
But they ‘own’ a bit of the land.
None on earth is the owner of the land,
For HE Who hath created it is its Owner,
And we’re HIS tenants staying a while,
And we play gimmicks to mimic the outrageous traitor,
And the traitor is the law-breaker, who counteracts the Creator,
But in vain he brandishes his sword against the Mighty.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:34 AM UTC
Tireless Engineers are needed for many a bridge has been destroyed ...
Carpenters , block masons and steel workers from every corner of Earth ..
Every color and creed employed to secure their timely construction ..
Many islands in need of the path by the light , wave after wave of our
brothers are in need of stout bridges tonight !
Love is needed to brighten the skies , to make electric connections to those in the black of night .. Black and white linemen are sought to wire the world in shared pain and forgiveness , to brighten the lives of those gripped in plight , answer the need of the helpless tonight !
Many energetic , compassionate people are needed to address the infrastructure of humanity on this very night !
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
I cannot see the features right,
When on the gloom I strive to paint
The face I know; the hues are faint
And mix with hollow masks of night;
Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought,
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes,
A hand that points, and palled shapes
In shadowy thoroughfares of thought;
And crowds that stream from yawning doors,
And shoals of pucker'd faces drive;
Dark bulks that tumble half alive,
And lazy lengths on boundless shores;
Till all at once beyond the will
I hear a wizard music roll,
And thro' a lattice on the soul
Looks thy fair face and makes it still.
844
This life got a jigga stressed out
The strife 'lot bigga than he'd th-ought
Dropsy hurt his mind left something behind
Topsy turvy his path seems more curvy
Than straight even without the hate
Doing a dance with fate at eight
Even though it feels more like nine
Surrounded by swine carrying the sign
Of Cain, quite profane sigils etched
On they brain, apathy that Masons sketched
From Babylon's blood cult sons they fetched
This blueprint, that's all this Jew'll hint
I refrain from consciously causing pain
But the stain unconsciously switching my lane
Getting bucked off the faux high horse
Getting ****** out the ego lie of course
Getting lost sending this code morse
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
I would take him back in the same span of time that my heartbeats adjust to mirror the flutter of hum-wings whenever I catch a glimpse of his ghost in my soul.
It cries for him while scrying through its windows and only he could settle it into perfect pieces, but he presses his hands against the jumbled mess that he left behind and pretends he doesn't remember how it is to feel me back into place.
I never thought that I would be this lost without another person, and sometimes I could forget that something should be looking for me, but then he speaks and his voice makes me feel found and his gaze reminds me that I belong in a place that he expelled me from in October; when leaves soaked in the passion he dropped and painted themselves with his fire, when clouds tried to warn me with grey soldiers, and when the Eiffel tower turned into shoddy log cabins with rust and tin signs reading 'Motel' instead of 'Paradise'.
He never loved the smell of my nail polish, so he never kissed my fingers- yet, I heard rumor that his lips trailed along all ten of her lithe digits and breathed her in the same way he would learn to inhale smoke next year in January, when I grew wise enough not to be his vice and she grew bored of him trying to mold her into one.
I laughed when she broke his heart and cried because I am not sure if mine will ever be healed again.
In April, when my resolve to break myself of him the same way one would break a brittle bone if pressed between harsh jaws too tight, he called.
I knew I shouldn't answer, but Cupid had yet to retrieve his anchor from my lips and when I could hold strong no longer he greeted me with a nostalgic-feeling smile in his voice and a shackle for my mind, embedded with a cursive 'K.S.'.
It's been half-a-year since that October and his passion is still in the leaves and his masons haven't glanced at 'paradise'- my nails are still black and he doesn't love the smell yet- I am going to Purchase and he is packing for Atlanta with a fever as though he would depart tomorrow, and I can't help but wonder if he thinks of me when he folds his clothes into each box and how much I was willing to travel behind his shadow if he just glanced over his shoulder a few times a day.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
The innocents are coming out to die,
Their back's against the sky,
The sun leaking through their sides,
The time is now to walk on,
To leave this life behind and those who built it
so high, so that only those
who can afford wings can fly,
leaving the rest to die.
Left in slow ruin and pain,
We long to be reborn
through love and the sane,
Doom is only before us,
A path laid by masons
to guide us easily on our way,
to a destination destitute with pain.
Can you smell it in the air?
The smell of fever and disease
created by a higher greed,
to fulfil a plot of twisted deeds,
labouring over common needs.
Behind the bushes and the trees,
There are mysteries to be seen,
Stark, wild and mad people,
Dressed in silk, cloaked in hoods,
Their eyes in darkness as they should,
To see no trickery or lies, they hide behind
masks whilst laughing inside.
The innocents are coming out to die,
Their backs against the sky,
The sun leaking through their sides,
The time is now to walk on,
To leave this life back and beyond.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
The moat where we keep watery fowl
afloat feeding them cracked corn
scattered from our parapets.
Repaired the dry rot in the gate, got the
drawbridge working, again…it rusts.
There is dust, makes us sneeze.
Stumble over stones, look at masons
askance. Threaten grain withholding
(hint: barley) unless they
make ‘em flush.
How fun to keep
the keep
shiny.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
Shred it
Forget it
Leave it where it lies
Toss dead weight aside
Shoot it right between the eyes
It's dead
I loved it for a moment
Now it lies there lifeless
And it's dragging me down
Hold me back
Back
Back against the wall
I'm punching out the bricks one by one
Crumble as the masons cry
The glutton
He needs no introduction
Too much is never enough
They gladly provide
What more could you want?
Nothin's never in short supply
Leave these scraps
Out for rabid dogs
Lapping up like last meals
Glad to have a master
******* never misses one
Eyes always bigger than his innards
What's for dinner's gonna finish him off
Waste not want not
Never heard that one before
He lost everything in the fire
Now he's out to go find more
Things he never had
Thankful he's still breathing
Maybe one last kiss for old time's sake
Now please be quiet the movie's starting
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC