Don’t want to walk through the pain.
But the want…
are not the same.
There is no religion to the agony.
There is no need for the ache’s shame.
only the want remains.
Only remains a cast of shadow in the day.
The day I stop…
walking through the pain.
I have written off that which is not known
Crashing into the earth…secrets come with the winds.
Dismissive pine needles of discourse…go, flow, go.
I choke on the ashes of the earth.
Soiled and turned and forgotten…
what is it that leave the belly of the beast that grows, grows and grows?
Perhaps a bitter forested pill which is embedded in plumes of snow.
To breathe or not to breathe.
The swaying maple, birch and alike,
And, I sit singing their refrain.
Vanishing back in ’89
Casualties of ’89
A conductor’s timepiece…
A clockwork of technicolor breakdowns
And, races to the finish smeared with red tape
Cheers of holding on, discoveries that came much too late..
Vanishing in ’89
Family values of a primitive kind
No matter how white the snow may currently be
it has no choice to soil itself down
It is in the deficient nature of the beast
Running down in ’89
With no importance of the finish line
Can a new reality be forged
Can we allow tainted walls closer to
Can yesterday beckon a seasoned start
Vanishing and gone… back in ’89
Closer, closer, closer to fine
No matter how secluded those that were dear
No matter how sequestered they appear
Beastly bones are nothing more than a…
Handed down meaningless antique
Vanishing in ’89
I wonder back to the screeching night
where to draw the darkest of fine lines
Be chivalrously autonomic
Being intimately private to true bone
Being in internal love, one but not alone
I have seen sorrow being dragged upon the forest bed.
Sorrow and Grief…her best friend.
I drag them barefoot…scrapping fractious feet upon disruptive, chaotic floor.
Both women, put upon by the light snow and distant screams.
With fist in a ball and charity along my lines of pine.
Sorrow comes as a matter of recourse.
And, grief…she grabs hold with a ragged limb.
She allows just enough for my carriage of thought to run…thin.
Sorrow and grief, my friends for now, remember every vacant vow
the terrain, coarse with a mortal’s soul.