Tuesday, November 06, 2018

THE TRAIN AT THE END OF THE WORLD.


THE TRAIN AT THE END OF THE WORLD.

The train goes to the end of time.
It sits there and it waits.
I find myself standing on the end of oblivion,
the time it takes for control to manifest.
I am self-absorbed in the realm of darkness.
Time forces us to a standstill.
The broken clock marches forward,
and gleams of promise; hope fades
to fear.
Light is like a folding flower,
it goes around and around.
The wheels of the train are spinning.
I am a colored wheel. I light my own way
in the dark.
The train goes through thick, gooey mud.
I am concerned with what will happen
the next day; the next and the next until
time breaks down and rots away.
The river is wide. The train breaks down
in the water. Rust rots away. I am broken,
like a clock, that falls in the water
and time does not end.


Thursday, October 18, 2018

THE WIND IN THE OLD HOUSE.


The wind shudders and sighs
throughout the old, barren house.
Its rusty walls are grim.
I found the darkness
reverberates throughout the walls,
the anger is mass, like the sea.
The loneliness fills the a void
in my mind.
I am gone, and I am here.
I am no one and everyone.
I am a lone shoe on the stair
that is old and wanting wear.
I do not try to be like anyone else.
I do not try to be a second guest
in someone else's home.
I move around without a sound.
But the old man I love is a grouch,
he tried to bite and scratch and crawl
his way out of bed,
blankets clawing at his old hands.
He thought of death and I was still.


Wednesday, October 17, 2018

ALONE.


ALONE
I am alone in the dark of the night.
I am alone without a thought or a light.
I am a star; that lives and dies,
I am a baby that sleeps and cries.

All alone, I do not dwell;
my mind is dark; my heart will swell.
I fade just like the night that comes.
In my heart, I beat like drums.

I am alone, just like the night.
In the shadows, there is no light.
I am a harp that bends and bows,
the water-as it shapes and flows.

Now! Now. The bending of the dark,
I fly away, on the wings of a lark.
Holding fast to the ones I love,
who put on the sorrow just like a glove.

Move! Move! We live on seats above.
I glare and stare and sing of doves.
We do not know of time or light,
for, in the darkness, there is the night.


Monday, October 15, 2018

OLD WOMEN WEEP.


Old Women Weep

Far beyond forbearance,
I mimic the wall of incumbrance.
The drones fall on unseen hands.
Days fade like broken stones.
Like statues on the statuette,
I don't see anyone, anything
beginning to tire until the next day at hand.
I fall like lions.

The tired weep like
old women waiting for a bite to eat
on their way to work, women who are too
tired to retire, women who can't think
about anything but their husband,
getting them ready to bed, to work, to eat.
Sometimes their children play. But all day,
they work, having their hands tied in knots,
only to make minimum wage,
to go home and feed their children on bread
and eggs and milk.

But the milk sates the hunger.
It fuels the fire that burns raw inside,
that gets larger as they get older,
larger still as the world with all of its noise.


Sunday, October 14, 2018

FRIENDSHIP AT THE CHURCH.


Friendship at the Church

A little church sits on the end
of the road,
face forward towards the rolling hills.
The rolling hills are like green water,
that stop and move against the sun.
Over light, over darkness, the thing
breathes,
and sunshine sparkles like dew.
Some friends go and some friends come;
but in the deepness, the green grass grew.
Like flowers, I pour the darkness from my
hands,
and the old church bell chimes.
I am the nothingness that is in your mind,
I am a weathered vine.
All hope is through.
The church is painted white, like a ghost;
the bell shimmers bright like a silver host.
The anger moves vast like a wave of sea,
in it is you and me.
Follow like sorrow, the night that grew,
in it, hope waves like time anew.
Sometimes, we forget to pretend,
that all things are the same.
And the church still stands at the end
of the old road with the forgotten name.


Sunday, October 07, 2018

RUNNING OUT OF GAS.


Running Out of Gas

I am a poor man inside a blank wall.
I don't find anything wrong with the way I am.
I think therefore the light is dim.
I am behind on things. I belong swinging on
chains.
The world is terrible. No one wants to help
anyone anymore, things get worse by the second.
I don't have any second chances.
My money is running out. I'm running out of
time,
and running out of gas,
the clock ticks on the wall.
I have found shelter but it is inadequate.
The day grows long. I find holes in your reasoning,
for reasons unknown.
There is a grass stain on my knees.
I was running through a field of roses.
The roses are defective, but that can be changed.


Friday, October 05, 2018

ICELAND.



ICELAND

Darkness pours in the night.
Shadows spin; daylight beckons.
I glare at the spider on the wall.
It is forever gone.
Tomorrow I will go to the place
beyond the second world,
where love lies in promise;
and all hope shines.
Forever words echo in your heart
like a lily flower,
that bleeds the sins of justice.
The words flow like lions.
I seek myself out of realization,
where destiny lies inside me.
Nothing glares in the hope of
yesterday,
and tomorrows are born of
withered roses.
I take a long nap.
Horses run amuck in the wild,
and dreams are withered
remembrance.
Instead of fate, the city dances.
The moon goes with the tide.
I am not a sorrow of chasing dreams.
Hope is gone again.