Tag Archives: tired

An American Dream, Almost Forgotten

Blood-soaked visages and fetid rags fill the space before my eyes. You would have me believe that it’s all according to plan? The blunt-force trauma, the brain damage, the bleeding belly-wound that signals a final turn into the worst possible outcomes… How do you justify it all? How does it sit with you? In rusted manacles and filthy, putrid trousers sits the man, the woman, the Geist. Hardened hearts bely broken minds and haggard breaths, the death throes of a bygone era. Will the builders and the founders save us from staggering one-legged into the apocalypse? I shall await forever those things promised to me in my youth. We’ve all the time in the world.

An American Dream, Almost Forgotten

Lying there

staring out the window

look at things you cannot see.

Those little pictures in your head

reflected in the eyes atop your face.

Not broken,

but whole.

Down below

in streets unclean

where windows break

and saxophones wake

perhaps the eyes atop your face

would find themselves adrift

in one foreign little place.

I only wish,

come hell or high water,

that there upon that street

will your eyes not come to rest

for I wish a different future,

with a fair sight fewer sutures.

Fly, fly, fly

little bird.

It’s time to fly away

right on out the window.

The world awaits

your tired little eyes.

New Year.

Welcome to a new year, friends and all. I’ve not written in quite some time, nearly three weeks to my remembrance. I’ve got something for you that I hope makes up for the absence and rings that funny little new years bell. No more tears, no more fears. I’ll be 23 this year. Everybody hates you when you’re 23. Please enjoy the piece today. Without further ado…

Transience of a Midnight Passerby

One day I wish to wake

from this ever-present, all-encompassing sliver of a dream.

I rest here, without laurels

on remnants of those things left behind

by former residents of the periphery.

It is not that there is nothing here.

It is only that this place is transitory,

it is a placeholder,

a way-station for all those who might find their way.

I lie here,

untethered from the place that comes before and the place that comes in consequence,

on an old bed of straw and linens

expertly and serenely tied to an aging cedar frame.

I’d hoped to find a little more peace here.

Perhaps I’d hoped to divine some meaning from the splinters I’d get sleeping in this worn and tired bed-frame.

Those little wooden splinters tell the story of a thousand years lived in a world so loved that every single lover has died right there by its side

no matter how ancient she might become.

It is only that I lack the knowledge and wisdom required for further reading, lest I might learn how this old cedar frame came to be.

That,

I don’t think,

would be permitted.

Soon I’ll move on,

washing away my time here along with the stains in my bedding and my clothes.

This is nowhere,

certainly not somewhere,

and a place that no one can truly stay,

for only it is no one that lives here

and He I have not been able to find.

Before those wooden halls and vaulted ceilings call me home,

I’ll find one thing so worthy of a King.

Reternal

Good morning, everyone. I have an interesting post-finals week poem for you. I do sincerely hope you enjoy. Without further ado:

Arisen

Ten white horses buck the trend

and at rainbow’s edge find their end.

“I was looking for gold,” he had said,

now all was lost and he was old.

There never was a pot of gold,

there, at the edge of the rainbow.

Only dust and mist

and things you might have missed.

Ten white horses round the bend

and find a place where they can send

a message back to the lands of men.

“Do not follow,” spoke the cadre, in unison,

“The world in here is one most hollow,” contends the ghostly troupe.

“We’ll not be back in time for soup.”

Soot and soil,

there again.

Fire’s out.

The charcoal turns to ash again.

Can never find my flint and steel…

There it was, just by the reel.

Now it’s all to ash and soot,

buried in the soil.

Drink the water,

make sure to boil.

Ten dark horsemen rise from the boneyard.

“It’s time,” they whisper, as if to a lover.

It’s the horsemen’s turn to play a card.

You’ll be lucky

if you are smothered.

Psychologie

Guten Tag und willkommen, Freunde. Ich habe hier für dich ein neues Werk. Ich hoffe, dass Sie mögen es. Ich habe sehr hart daran gearbeitet. Bitte genießen, meine Lieben. Mit ohne weitere Umschweifen…

Chomping at The Bit

There is a horse

With human eyes

~

too many, too short

those legs of that sort

~

The cavalry approaches

in Phantom Cavalcade

~

set there at the edge of the World

by hands that thought their conduct kind

~

I think they’ve gone and made me blind.

Spirit of the Times

Good morning, everyone. There is much I must take care of, much I have to worry about. In the meantime, I’ve a new poem for you all to consider. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Zeitgeist

Ghosts and specters swirl around

in graceful twirls they do abound,

with their cold touch they do surround,

now feeling lost but never found.

In the bin out there in back

on account of such that I did lack.

My head and hands these thoughts did wrack

on account of that thing which I did lack

and something there I’ll not get back.

I see the ghosts across the water…

Nay, upon the water.

My mind then starts to wander

about those things that hearts do ponder.

Philters and phials could not save

that man which breaks and makes insane;

there is some feeling that does not wane

no matter who the ghosts arraign.

Though it seems the tide is low,

the water tends to encroach slow.

Most decide to go

but while I’m still here,

I think I’d like to know.