Freedom…Just another word for nothing left to lose.
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.
Which form of abuse is to your liking?
The choice never had been yours
to make anyway…
Though it had always been your voice at stake
Just another orgasm faked…
Choices, options, delusions of narcissistic grandeur…
Why not a familiar bent take on beat her down pleasure?
They all say twice more than what they hear
Guardians of hand-me-down fear.
Everyday serving up a family owned tactile recipes
Everyday reminders turned mystery thrillers.
Everyday the salts that eat the pillars.
Cedar Wood Courts, me
A memory jogged itself free.
It had been Cedar Wood Court…
a family of flashes absconded with the longest day of the year.
You are after all, old Irish, dear.
The hide and seek…whiskey laced
A game of our Father falling from grace.
Cedars lined in a suburban roe
a piece of country amongst
An isle of make believe
A day trip tuned in to…
indignant baritones housed in Mother’s shoe.
Loaded guns, stolen Winston’s and relapse debris…
Hangin’ from the memories of Cedar trees.
One for you
Two for me.
Walkin’ the dog, climbing the trees…
Cedar Wood court…
Childish, isn’t it?
To want to believe.
I ask, ‘what good is a word…wrapped in barbwire?‘
It is expression squeezed dry of color.
Cross-words lacking landscape…deprivation in an isolated world.
An imperfect storm in which memory is unfurled.
All this language bantered about with the hue of integrity bleeding out.
When will childhood become a Polaroid from the past?
Words, words, words, ugly…looking to get further down the road.
Not knowing where they were first planted.