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everyone is dead

the wars upon the land
had crawled ever closer
the distance from implosion
grew as thin as the skin
of those worn down
once tall, strong, historic

they had crawled ever so slowly
harsh claws
agony as they went
down the artists throat
words fell upon brazen vocal chords
consumed by the hunger of war
his voice, fallen
like sweet angels forgotten

the wars they took his laughter's life
but his hands they knew not death
they played the strings
they sang his song
the wrote his passage
they became his lungs
they gave us gifts

his words too absent to give
so he played us poetry
he dare'nt speak of
in quite so certain terms
so he played for us
the sounds of life
the haunt of war
that we might see
what we are dying for

every one is dead
and no one knows anything
and the keys to the kingdom
lie with the monster
as he fights his savage

we are our brother's reaper,
our mother's shame,

and as for our sisters,

there is only silence.

your city

i could be your city
you look upon from the sky
through my every pathway
you're free to wander
the keys are yours to throw away
i hope you'll be safe
where streets aren't lit
your soul more than compensates
for the darkness I left behind
in the shade of lost homes
and buildings drawn in confusion
roads paved in guilt
by yesterdays innocent youth
and today's wayfaring man
discover all you wish
so go on
'til your soles ache of love
but leave some time for rest
your head on my shoulder
to watch the sun return home
as we grow a day older

Better in Tune With the Infinite

more than mere reaction
something
that encompasses yesterday
compounds the present
and screams the future
eternity is no far cry
for those who see in infinities

behaviour laden in silk
itself shrouded in mystery
with a legacy of history
hurried footsteps t'ward paradise
at Mother's feet
tear ducts follow the suit of a kindred spirit

sacrifice at the plea of companions
closed eyes through the gale
a cut against the grain
words forged that imprint the scale
more than just ink on a page
the gravitas of forever.
to hear the self cry
lama sabachtani
to rise above.

a delicate touch to agony
an embrace that painted home
in the heart of a torn soul

and of course to Love
as if you hadn't already
with a truth that turns the storm tranquil
warm hands that open eyes
to the height of intimate
and bring oneself, and a beloved
better in tune
with the infinite

Morning Mist

our most treasured tales
are those that cling to us
for reasons known and strange
bridging the writers gap
taking listeners away
to the road less travelled
paved by tongues
home to bitter-sweet taste
and songs of accepted fate

An Ode to Those Who've Met Before

way over yonder
and on street corners
close to our homes
you'll find penned reasons
to hold me in contempt;
even harm me.

so in our sour times
friendship is counted twice
when held through
screams of scorn
and bellowed bigotry,
our silence speaks.

it proves its worth
against the tales and poetry
how could it not,
with roots in love,
there's proof enough;
it was destined to succeed

oddities and rarities that were shared ordinarily
with a golden soul
beneath golden suns
and our typical grey
that plagues a little less,
with solitary thought lent to another

this unfamiliar territory
chanced upon by a traveller
with a heart that warmed
through a spring that never came
and a summer that shone
and burned time past

laughter that would
light flames under January's snowflakes
and company that would
remain after parting,
whither sorrow to ash
and turn me to gratitude

for fortunes upturned
in the mystery of patterns
spelled by God
that lay in paths tread
by those who've met before;
called friends by some.

This Bitter(sweet) Earth II

this place
this compounded earth
home to fallen souls
the earthy ground
where tears of joy
dilute rivers of blood
but the flowers still bloom
and roots still rise.
see Maya Angelou.

this place,
ultimately,
beautiful, and abhorrent
swaying in the balance
of both these faces of ours
this compounded earth
living under
seemingly infinite
assailant-footsteps
is also home
beneath dancing feet
and innocence unbound

this place
where lovers fear
and the fearful run
the feared may run
some fleeting borders
lost to time perhaps;
myopic we can be
indeed

are we trying to
forget,
our feelings of love
at the simplicity of seeing
our vicious selves?
forgetting our mother's hands
and her lips
upon our foreheads;
she is not the queen
of this place, true.
but neither are those
who smoke our sight
and blind us so,
to all but plight.