Born on an Overcast Day

Freedom…Just another word for nothing left to lose.

-J.Joplin

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As the season’s merge…

I cannot help but think of how it is with us.

The inherited panic and fear.

The constant need to disappear.

Just when a trail has been laid…

Just as time has been weighed…

Our over shadowed life becomes displayed.

And, with that knowledge,

we continue to bear the fruit.

An oath to a world of soiled roots.

It is an overcast day.

Guess, sometimes it has to be that way.

Civilized words for a shut book.

Theology has yet to devise a means in which to get you…

off the hook.

No matter how much I scour my mind…

with the salts of the earth…

The winds of change have not stopped.

They take comfort in the calm before the storm.

Yet, they are never completely gone.

And, so the story goes,

some hostages are held by fear and dread.

Others by a custom-made bed. 

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Vagabond Ties

Ashes of particles, light as the air I breathe.

Just a matter of human debris.

How could any of this rationale be anything but our own destiny?

For all we know, dreams that will got away.

And, no amount of substance will make them stay.

Windows we once believed to be clear as day?

Simply fixed particles, for an imaged display.

Basic explanations to love’s effort…that will go about…its own way.

I have tried to reason away the care you give me.

Offered up logical examples for our bliss.

Yet, there always remained a nonsensical skylight’s array to why WE exist.

I am not a poet…but I play one through my words.

Alas, all that I can come up with is

an absolute loving of a vagabond…

still strikes me of being a notion that is absurd.

Whimsical Obligations

What of these vows we make. Real or imagined. Spoken or, assumed. Promises behind cupped hands.

I still collect…broken things.

My vain attempt at avenging secrets I would rather not keep.

All whimsical obligations.

Random boughs on a trail to somewhere else.

Court ordered family lies.

Often seen in charming disguise.

Ironic, but away from the pledge, I never feared that I would not make it home.

Comfort came with words and song.

I am used to collecting used things.

Marred, scarred, dented.

I built with pride..this broken home.

My brother, my sister,

mainstream.

Outwardly able to live a lie.

Able to forgo…the why.

Still in the darkness of sleeplessness,

their anger cries.

Black Sheep…Broken Throne…Broken

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I have been thinking about…sin, as of late.

When it ends?

Where it begins?

How it hovers around from within?

A snap of the bony spine that breaks when seated.

Why did someone else place their misdeeds…in my mind?

Why the cheating hearts of childhood passed down a broken a throne?

Madness Child?

A title handed down…for me to own.

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I have been thinking about sin…as of late.

How it is meant to control.

How it is a hand me down…stunting the soul,  as it grows.

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Infant Prisoner

Calamity can oblige so quickly.

Hanging like dust particles in the still air.

There are bleak moments when disappointments arrive…

as, mine to encircle.imageedit_3_4393574774

A tug of war between light and dark.

The ceremony, on the whole, becomes a magical affair.

Bloated spirits linger above the home for the dead.

And, with the push of misaligned whispers, I am an infant prisoner…once again.

Prepared, willing and able, to hand disappointment down to the next of kin.