"veered" poems
DEMOCRACY-PLUTOCRACY-BUREAUCRACY
OUR DESIRE TO HAVE A DEMOCRACY
HAS VEERED TOWARD A FETID PLUTOCRACY
AND I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKIN'
IT'S THE MONEY THAT'S STINKIN'
IN THE POCKETS OF OUR "ELECTED" BUREAUCRACY
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?
Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."
But that's not true!
Look at Trostky and Lenin,
Michael Myers and Lennon,
The other Lennon.
It's hard to differentiate in name and legacy,
Because both Lennon's were revolutionaries,
Marching around like the freshman from heaven.
But neither believed they were the result of divine intervention in the affairs of man,
Because this convention would threaten their worldview and beckon away their sanity...
In the same way that the Pope or ****** let their divine vanity commit greater blasphemy and bring them future agony.
Now neither Lennon nor Lenin came anywhere close to being men from Galilee,
In fact they were more the men of the galaxy,
Or at least, John was, with his peach fuzz beard and his belief that love is greater than fear.
The other Lenin implemented the New Economic Policy, to starve the proletariat and start his revolution on an already hypocritical trend that would continue quite the same until the very end.
And it proves something, does it not?
Violence sends a message to no one but the instigator,
Changing them to justify, and claim is wasn't misbehavior;
But that's a lie, no idea of mine is worth the death of a human mind,
And to pretend otherwise makes one delude themselves that they aren't an instigator, but an illustrator,
Painting in the blood as if ****** makes an innovator.
And for ****** there is no vindicator,
Violence is an image breaker,
Indulged in by poor imitators who think they're right, and the world is wrong.
Unaware this makes them weak, not strong.
Now John Lennon was the true revolutionary;
Although he succumbed to violence, he veered away from it, even when it was necessary.
He fought the war, and yes, the war did win,
But at least he didn't cover his scars with artificial skin,
Or deny his implicit wrongs as a result of all original sin.
John Lennon used the word 'nigger' to the opposite effect.
He used the word to trigger something bigger and correct,
The wrong that seemed so propagated by the last colonial tide,
Of which the other Lenin defected and took colonialism's side.
John Lennon was Utopian and told us of a better world;
He interjected definition, and caused old thoughts to curl away in fright,
And bite the dust despite their might and past dominion of industrialism,
It was a schism, and it still plagues us to this day.
John Lennon understood we over-complicate way
To
Often.
Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?
Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."
"Some body" is something,
And some body can change the world.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
She sat by me, in her skirt, hand grenade green,
And an off-white blouse obscured by a jacket with dust in its seams,
Like leather, like elderly skin, like a crossword puzzle with half the letters filled in,
She sat by me and spilt her sentences and her tea:
She claimed her husband had been killed by a cabal of spiritualists,
Killed by a bull elephant in the streets of Nepal,
Killed by the seven plagues,
And never killed at all,
That he was once a number
Somehow both perfect and prime,
That he was Prime minister of the sea,
And independent of time,
That his bones were cracked marbles
Bought from a widow in Tennessee,
That his name continued to escape her,
But that he looked something like me,
Leaving I saw her wings drag her heavenward,
I saw her terrible wings,
As I stumbled and veered from concrete to tarmac
I heard the pavements start to sing:
“I was once a flowerbed,
My father was a field,
My mother was a source of light,
Before which all the people kneeled.”
Then lost in the eye of daytime and night,
Drawn to the moustache of a Spanish racketeer,
He was once abandoned by his books and his babies
In the boot of a broke-down cavalier,
His pasts and ideas caught up to him,
And gripped him by his belt and his teeth,
His pasts gripped him in quiet of his nightmares,
And slashed his arms in the street,
Visions shook me by the bleeding palm,
Her terrible wings now pinpricks for the moon,
Visions shook me as deities died,
With eyes like a card-trick and fingers like doom,
Then stuck in the endless space between words;
She sat by me, in her skirt, hand grenade green;
Stuck in the endless space between words;
And an off white blouse obscured by a jacket with dust in its seams...
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
A sapling restrained from its dirt prison
Wanting to sail across the vast seas
Yearning for liberation
Rain brew in the mighty sky
The little sapling endured valiantly
The sporadic growth of the sapling now on tie
Tempest devoured by the radiant sun
Absorbing nutrients from the sun’s jubilance
The days till maturity became none
The petals of the primrose began to blossom
A majestic scent pervaded the boundless air
The options veered from lean to awesome
Spain, Germany, Belgium, and France
Foreign mountains, towers, and customs
Now in sight from the blossom dance
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 7:28 AM UTC
Write yourself a letter
make yourself feel better
all of your imagined flaws
give them a round of applause
Put down all your good deeds
when you helped someone in need
give yourself a pat on the back
it will help when you've veered of track
Secrete it in a special place
when the day or yourself you can't face
replace tears with a smile
if only for a little while
Self-praise is not always wrong
we can keep our self-esteem strong
life will give us enough knocks
whatever you do give it socks
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
We have never been so connected.
Humanity has never been this accepting.
Indeed, we are moving forward.
But isn't it ironic?
That in this age of openness,
It is considered wiser not to show care.
That caring is something miraculous.
Almost.
We almost did it.
We almost showed passion.
We almost cared.
We almost loved.
We.
Almost.
Made it.
Almost. But never enough.
Yes, now, we value honesty but we always forget that not saying what we really want to say is the opposite of what we uphold.
This is not honesty.
This is far from the truth.
We are lying.
We've been lying to ourselves.
Hypocrites.
Casualties.
We end up faking our deaths,
Eternally uncertain what could've happened if veered away from life's
What if's.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
As we congregate
For centuries
Humanity had
The best thoughts
To create an ecosystem
Where all lives can thrive
But somewhere
We have lost the plot
And veered away
From the values
That all lives matter
Now minuscule section
Takes decisions for us
Manipulating the ecosystem
Creating a façade
For us to believe
Lot many minds think alike
Individual thoughts drown
Mirror is the only escape
Where we can talk to ourselves
Without the distortions
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
Reaching back,
Back to that fork
In the road
Where irreversible consequence
Hid like angina
In a dunhill bubble
And you veered left,
Smitten by the decadence of mint
And mythical circles
Blown with liberal disdain
From a camel's ****
You followed the green line
Rippling like waves
Of vintage wine
Through gomorrah
Caution blown
As a midsummers gale
Between tarred lips,
Your ship sailed
The straits of cool
From bogart to newport
If dean only knew
Nat the king
Could still be singing
Nature boy on the square,
Live
He might have spurned his spyder
And lucky strikes
For a slice of life
Beyond 24
And you might have
Veered right
At that fork in the road,
Swapping scarred consequence,
Tarred lips,
And angina
For the whole pie
~ P
(#FromTheCamelsButt)
12/24/2014
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
We are the wretched broke down souls
Running through the boulevards
Though the warning bells do toll
We are hunted by our cards
Unfairly dealt, but the game is done
It is never us who won
We know who we are
Our eyes of shattered glass
The asylum is never far
And neither is our past
But still we sprint until collapse
Little pieces, found and captured.
Our minds have veered off the map-
Us of the mutual psychotic rapture
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 12:33 AM UTC
Have you ever wanted to do something just once,
Only once and never again, and then have it be as if
You'd never done it at all?
It was summer, like now:
Hot, hazy, sweaty--even in the evening.
The brook ran low, between banks covered with alders,
Overhanging, tall, immense;
The mountains were purple, indefinite through the mist;
The pines looked almost black.
You could smell the summer--scents from the marsh--
Things in their prime--you could hear them,
Tweeting and chirping and buzzing and peeping and croaking,
And barking and hooting:
Dead mid-summer--hot, sticky, buggy.
After the sun set, but before it was dark,
When you can still see, but everything's a different color,
I stood on the old bridge
Where the brook runs under the back road
On its way from the marsh, down through the village,
To the big river and the lake beyond.
I was looking up towards the plateau, trying to lose myself,
When around the bend, banking against the alders,
In formation, like separate missiles shot from different cannons
At the same moment, at the same velocity,
In the same direction
With systems to navigate and turn, elevate and descend, dart,
Follow the stream bed,
And stay exactly the same distance from each other,
Like an entity with an awareness
The no one part could experience,
Came a flight of bats, moving too quickly to count.
They rocketed under the bridge,
Appeared on the other side, raced
Down a straight stretch, veered right
And disappeared with the brook into the meadows
Headed for the dark pines, the rapids and beyond.
You could hear the swish of their wings as they passed
And their high-pitched pings, like the highest notes on a harp.
In a blink they were gone, in their ecstasy flying on,
And I wanted to be them, all of them at once--
Just once.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
I've a sinking friendship,
Torpedoed by the ********
And listing.
The first mate mutinied.
Once a blood brother,
Like no other;
An intimate
At an imminent end,
An alter-ego
More than a friend.
I've been too patient,
Veered off course
With understanding.
I'm quite sure
This Pythias
Would run and leave me
Hanging.
I'm on a cliff
And won't hang on
To a blade of trust,
A fawning pawn.
He had my back,
I turn,
He's gone.
This partisan
Must part
A homeless homeboy,
A dissembling fraud.
No longer a mainstay,
He's insecure,
His equivocations
Make lines blur,
I don't believe
Him anymore.
He really needs a soul-mate,
Classmate, playmate,
But he's become a reprobate,
Lying prostrate,
Lying up straight.
I'll drown my Boswell
In my inkwell;
No longer
An advocate.
The laughs have left,
Yes,
I'm bereft,
But I'll catch the wind.
My course is true.
This friendship
Can't be salvaged.
It's scuttled,
And I won't
Sink with you.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.”
Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade.
I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor.
She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle.
I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice.
She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers.
My mind was her mind.
Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder.
Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep.
Did I want her, or did I want to be her?
Alison Wonderland.
Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own.
For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me.
On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst.
My mind was her mind.
And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down.
Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple.
Carnival infatuations…
Alison Wonderland.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
While introspecting
I came closer, to myself
Being distanced
I forgot the language
In which scripts were written
Became myopic
And veered farther
Enjoying being away
Lost in the din
Never realizing
I was being swept away
From myself
While my soul yearned
For a rendezvous
I was oblivious
Seduced by the glib talkers
Became gullible
And yielded to the manipulations
Was a hallucinating ride
In the scariest roller coasters
Mind in a jumble
Entangled in the web of lies
Now, I have come back
From the brink of oblivion
To myself
Once more to listen
To my soul and heart
A union
After a struggle
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 7:46 AM UTC
She didn’t look awfully well that day
Though she never would make a fuss,
I said we should get to the hospital
That I’d travel with her on the bus.
The weather was terrible, snow on the road
And a seaborne yellow mist,
So I wrapped her well in a scarf and coat
And did my best to assist.
She leant on me, walked out to the stop
And we sat on the ice cold bench,
I thought for a moment she’d faint or drop
So taking the bus made sense.
The car would be hard to manage that night
For the roads were covered with ice,
I couldn’t hold her while driving the car,
But we needed a doctor’s advice.
The cough had got worse as the day went on
And her hanky was spattered with blood,
I prayed it was just a vessel that burst,
Not that I thought it should,
But consumption sat at the back of my mind
It was rare, but still around,
I was praying a lot, but still my head
Would cover the same old ground.
We watched as the lights of the bus rolled up
So dim in the mist to see,
A double-decker, we climbed aboard
It was number twenty-three.
The passengers all were grey and drab
And some of them seemed asleep,
A skeleton sat hunched up at the rear
And Kathie began to weep.
‘It’s only a medical student’s thing,’
I said, ‘there’s nothing to fear.’
But Kathie flinched as we walked on past,
‘Then why did he leave it here?’
She settled down in a window seat
While I sat next to the aisle,
And the bus rolled into the swirling mist
So we sat quite still for a while.
The lights in the bus were more than dim
And Kathie was looking grey,
While I got up at the hospital stop
Kathie was looking away.
Then suddenly I was out on the road
As the bus took off in the mist,
While Kathie stared through the window pane,
It was like she didn’t exist.
I ran and I ran, and chased the bus,
But I ran and ran in vain,
For the bus veered off, went over the cliffs
And vanished into the rain,
I found her there on the bus stop bench
Where we’d sat, all grey and still,
And I wept, and thought of the phantom bus
That had taken her over the hill.
I could swear we’d stood, and climbed on the bus,
My love, my Kathie and me,
But they said there never was such a bus
As a number twenty-three,
And I see her now in my dreams at night
As she stares through the window pane,
Of a phantom bus that takes her away,
Over the cliffs in the rain.
Over the cliffs on a freezing night
When she died, ice cold on the bench,
What was I thinking, I ask myself,
Where was my common sense?
Then I take some comfort to think that I
Had once been a part of us,
And travelled some of the way with her
Where she’d gone, on the phantom bus.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
I wrote about you for the same reason I photographed you
Because even though we aren't the same people now
You're the same person I fell in love with on the old pages of my journal
But instead of being wrapped in your arms, the words on my pages hold me close and bring warmth to my heart, much like you used to
The photographs of you pull up the corners of my lips to create a soft nostalgic smile, though my eyes start to pool in the corners
Not tears of sadness, but of melancholy remembrance for how much has changed since the ink dried on my pages
Tears that remind me why I write and capture
So that I can relive the moments I held dearest and preserve those who walked down my path with me, no matter where they veered off on their own, they'll always remain the same in my story.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 4:15 PM UTC
Skin pinked in the August heat
Thick with sunlight, we sit on the patio
One ordered a Manhattan
Another that local piss-in-a glass pilsner
The typical name dropping
Of “priest so and so” and
“The one I pretend to be my close friend
but we never talk about anything real”
Place cards adhered to locations
Cabins, sports and Disney vacations
Dreams that make up the American childhood
Those women are always a little louder
Those raging extroverts
Social club doorkeepers
Definers of the status quo
If they never had kids
Who would they be?
In their six bedroom homes and
Forgotten memories
Of why they said “yes”
Talk faster!
The topic just veered to the left
Tacky dangling earrings shout—
"Follow the prescription of happiness
I can’t hear you and I don’t want to!"
That sun just kept beating down
Nodding and smiling at vacuous words
I started reciting song lyrics inside of my head
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
As I rest beneath a sturdy willow
I dream of days long past,
Of long before my universe
Had veered from its straight path.
I have lived a life with happiness;
I have no reason to complain,
But imagining things that could have been
Overwhelms my heart with pain.
I wonder if he'd be here with me,
Relaxing by my side,
Maybe we'd have children now,
To fill my life with pride.
But in this life I'm here alone,
Lost love my one regret,
And despite the grief it causes me,
I pray I don't forget.
As I stare up at the swaying branches,
I hum an ancient tune,
And though the words are long forgotten,
The melody stays true.
I feel a breeze upon my skin,
And the song begins to soothe,
Despite the choice I wish I'd made,
I find comfort in one truth.
That dwelling on my past mistakes
Will never bring you here,
That there's beauty in this world to find,
Even though you're never near.
I must focus on the subtle hope
That joy will find me soon,
But before I start to crest that hill,
I must appreciate the moon;
To humble myself enough to see
The awe in my surroundings,
All the gifts this world provides,
On display for us so proudly.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 6:05 PM UTC
The hillside before me rolled out like a wave
awash in my thoughts 'til I noticed the grave
the headstone was tilted and covered in rot
a memory of someone forgotten, but not.
The scene triggered feelings which drew me way back
to a time when I dwelt in a one bedroom shack
the love of my life had grown cold, and despairing,
my heart shriveled up like an unpickled herring
I remembered thereafter, and oh, what a mess
I led me to places too dark to confess,
dying for flowers from somebody dear
I'd fill up my window box year after year.
and soon the depression grew into a hedge
though flowering plants kept me back from the ledge
"I'll never be happy! " I quite often thought
a forgotten old headstone all covered in rot.
I swore if I ever recovered again
I'd wait for the right one, the Boaz of men
but for all of the damage, the shape my heart's in
be blessed if he'd notice, so how could I win?
With all of these memories weighing me down
I slapped myself silly and turned up the sound
and opened the windows to let in some air
the sun on my face and then suddenly...glare!
I veered off the highway which cut through the land
a two lane construction of asphalt and sand
took the embankment at an ungodly pitch
and suddenly airborne, shot over a ditch.
Landing my vessel across the divide
I hoped for the best for it's brave underside
the dust settled soon, and how foolish I felt
Thank God I'd remembered to buckle my belt.
And there in the front seat, assessing my plight
dazed, but amazed at this beautiful sight
as 'Love is a Battlefield' blared in the grime
Wildflowers grew in the trenches of time!
You the forgotten who languish for years
ditched and bedraggled and drained of your tears
thinking you're nothing, a sunset that's fading
grieving love lost while your best years are waiting
Tend to your gardens wherever they are
keep yourselves fresh with the watering jar
Remember, like flowers, the wild ones too
your maker, your husband, will take care of you.
For your Maker is your husband--the LORD Almighty is his name--the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer; he is called the God of all the earth.
Isaih 54:5
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
A lost black and white picture
-Misplaces forever
A protruding tree in a pond
-Endlessly drowning
But I showed you a strong face
Yes, I showed you a lie
I thought for you to leave in peace
It was necessary for my burden
To find a place to hide
Home in your eye veered north
A rebel endeavor to outrun
The fire that is your skin
Like a shooting star
A star that had to die
For my unremarkable eye
To catch a glimpse of light
Teaching me how to say
-Goodbye
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 11:33 AM UTC
Whilst I was riding
early last eve
a peculiar thing happened
you'll scarcely believe
just to the left
out of the corner of my eye
I caught some motion
it was a surprise
the squirrel was fast
along the fence top did he
run along at breakneck speed
I chuckled to myself
but it did keep pace
it was clear to me
it wanted a race
A race it would be
man versus beast
defeat by the squirrel
was not to be
I could sense the challenge
in it's beady eyes
down the boulevard
we did fly
A man did approach
I veered to the left
he looked astonished
the squirrel just leapt
over the branch
that suddenly appeared
I took the advantage
and increased my speed
half a block to go
then the fence it would end
me and the squirrel
were neck and neck
racing for pride
who would be beat
we increased the pace
hearts setting the beat
then it happened,
a scrabble and a squeek
the squirrel had crashed
into a tree
the poor little guy
didn't see the branch
that had snaked across
his narrowing path
the end of the race
it happened to be
but defeat for the squirrel
brought no pride for me
I laughed to myself
and shook my head
and then I thanked God
for all he had sent.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
I know, that night, lying on our magic carpet
in the quarter-light, floating in our little dorm,
we cared not about those details
that bother when in broad daylight,
we didn’t mind the improprieties
that pinch when in public spaces.
We were sailing close to the wind,
communicating through fingertips,
unknowing the memories that pricked…
We veered through a common dreamspace,
nestled into each others’ chests
and memorized the sounds they made…
Yes, that night I cried, like that bizarre fish
that refills its own pond of water,
copious tears that went over both our heads
and the carpet sank so deep
that all its magic went down with it.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
Beauty so awkward.
Your flaws tell you you aren't thin.
Wish to change who you are cause of the discomfort
in your own skin.
Shed it like a snake.
wait for it to dry
and harden as time moves by.
I miss your old skin.
Beautiful with all it's imperfections.
Ignore your inner thoughts.
Slowly learn to resent them.
Writing these lines for you.
Snort them.
Quickly learn to adore them.
See it disappear
as it travels up your nostril.
You realize my words are in your system
and you no longer feel awful.
As you start to relax
you've realized you relapsed.
Words travel quick
and tickle your synapse. Fast forward
watch the timelapse as you reach the peak or should
I say the ****** This drug is so pure,
no errors of syntax.
Not even at your core yet
while I'm aiming at your cortex.
These are my words.
Become addicted to them.
Refer to them when your thoughts come in contact with deception.
Use my words to forcefully change your perception.
No more pain I promise.
Promise these words are honest and
honestly I'll keep convincing you of your
beauty till I'm exhausted.
Self esteem.
Here to lift it.
Even though I drifted and veered
from my intended path,
I'm here to help get rid of something
awful you refer to as your past.
Take my hand.
Extend mine to help you up.
Cause I've been on the ground too
when no one would simply show up.
You've been hurt.
Your wings are broken.
Let me mend them as a token
of appreciation for enlightening
the world with a smile so contagious
that would lead all to believe that
you're perfect.
perfection.
Not what I was searching
but that's what I stumbled upon.
Your scars make you perfect.
They make you human.
You exhale an excess of words
while I inhale. I feel the words
touring to my synapse making
my brain as warm as wool.
I guess even my own words
can make me fall in love with
someone
beautiful.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
This being has always
been my refuge. My brittle
mind was never worth a penny.
But a token she had given me.
As of now, I would be lucky
to see a strand of her brown locks.
Maybe it is wrong of me
to expect so much out of
one little person. Who am
I to ask someone to care.
I'd never tell even a muted
ear of my broken soul. In
all of honesty, death does not
seem that horrible, not as
terrifying as they make it
seem.
I think I am strong
enough to end it all now.
For months my refuge veered me
off of this course, but she
has left me defenseless against
the monsters, my monsters.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
they would wriggle their tongues,
teasing each other, from
opposite sides of the fence,
of sharp protrudes, which
could not cut the thread,
by which they were joined,
their comradeship intact, with
an amalgam of childish love,
and the simple plain desire,
of being with the other
through the window, of the
structures, that stood apart,
divided by a brick wall,
the tentacle eyed would
look, at the blooming friendship,
ready to plunge, their venom
into the hearts, of the innocents,
bidding for the time, when they
could feed, the mouths of them,
with the bitter seed, of animosity,
many years passed, everything passed,
the walls of those cursed shelters,
had bounded down, all that remained
was that fence, the knives of which
had gone blunt, and on the either side,
stood those, who knew each other once,
aware of the vacant space, in their chests,
(the yarn had gone loose, but there
was still a hope left, everything
had not gone, into trash yet)
on the gravel ground, they were stagnant,
reviving what was snatched from them,
how they were cheated, and left with
the ache, of losing what was theirs,
their eyes pierced, their souls apart,
and they veered away, not able to
grasp the pain, of their small lives,
losing balance, of the truth, they gained,
they walked away, finding their own ways,
what it was, it was lost, and that was all
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC