A Subtle Foe

A clutching, thumping madness; Cornered Bliss
A jumping, sliding bleakness; Mirrored Jest
To catch a stride, To win in spite of this
To play a tune, To sing a song less messed

Of hope to find the midst perhaps, not burst
Of thought to end the game forgot, not played

My selfish heart does tend to act its worst

My impish thoughts do need to be displayed

My circling brain does lose on autumn night
My open book lies flat against the wall

Of mirrors, Darkest corners find such light

Of puzzles, Pieces scatter, break, and fall

To translate mouths, do pour some salt in girth
To combat lies, have ears that never miss
A subtle, waking verse; A journal birth
A passing, jumbled phrase; An open kiss

Corrugated

Beside my thoughts,
A WARNING LABEL POSTED
Inside my head,
A MAZE OF UNINTERRUPTED THOUGHT
Under my bed,
PAST SCRAPS OF LESSER WHENS
Beneath my words,
ASTERISKS EXPLAINING  A CHILD
Through my dreams,
ALL WORLDS OF ENDLESS AMAZE
On the outside,
RIDDLES OF SELF DOUBT
Moving past,
QUICKLY AND UNNOTICED
Traveling to,
ANOTHER UNSEEN PATH
Carrying with,
MY BAG OF THINGS, OF COURSE
Writing within,
THE LINES OF ANOTHER SONG
Hiding quotes between,
THE LETTERS SO SOMEONE FINDS THEM
Understanding next to,
NOTHING THAT I HAVE SAID
Wondering above,
INTO A SUN THAT'S BLINDING ME
Running behind
THE BLASTED CLOCK OF TIME

Legacy

Wee child, For you is much untempered soil
Untouched by any hand, Mayhap unearthed
Your mask, Or have ye not remembered it
The great protector, Lies are our facade
‘Twas taken long ago, Do tell us now
Yes, Surely something quite another grand
A Savior do ye say, Of Him do tell

The minutes passed, All while we waited long
What seemed a child, For now he stood a man
He spoke of crosses did he now, We stirred
Emotion drove his words, as daggers home
Our hearts, immersed in flame, What light he shewn
Of which was never seen before, ‘Twas now
And men were fluted, culled from pasts, Be sure

What race doth children follow, Paths unstirred
A man becomes the sums of parts, ‘Tis true
But folds, Their ebb and flow do change like tides
And famous, Such peculiar dressing robes
That men of faith, They ought not wear at all
Their homes yes, Should their children know them well
Before a man, however, Silence reign

A work of hands be hard, And worthy gain

Be wary though, Of lies--green stares of men

Take solace, Shed all doubt, and laugh, Yes long

For days become much shorter, Sunrise wanes

And roses wither, Winter steals their vine

But you, What written songs behind your drum

Or will you leave a record--tale of Kings

Scribbling at the Proverbial Bus Station

And he said he didn't want to go downtown
For there was no one that would call his name
And he likes paintings, books, and mostly art
You could perhaps say he's romantic, yes
Though, what do such things even mean today
And who would even know art under tears
However, he yet peers at shooting stars
On cloudless nights, And he reads storybooks too
To stay awake at night when dreaming hurts
And many other things just pass him by
How much does waiting cost, How does one pay
A door is stood before him, Rusted vigil
Or waiting quiet, Some days are like that
While others are a deeper shade of blue
And while he ponders, He writes all the same

Last Song of the Day

The perfect premise to another end
The road, it flattens, Oh what hope it brings
No plain white noise, guitars invoke a sword

But bend your ear, But bend the sound my friend
To crank away the day, the pedal drowns
And vocals digest bad assumptions now

Yes, carry thoughts along the highway now
A few or twenty letter boxes left
The boxes make for music to drift home

Half Gasp

And then you realize at thirty
That you may have already so
Breathed out half of every breath
You would be given in this transient life

Choosing to run will speed the flow
Yet standing in place won't pause time
You have this plan, this pace, this rhythym
For not growing older, We would hear it now

The passing exhalations of morning coffee
While you were trying to remember your task
Shoes tied and out into the spinning madness again
Already a quarter of today's breaths gone like the wind

By the Road

So shines the light on yonder bench
Where no one has sat yet this night
Running by, I count at its textures
Boy do I wonder its many depths
How many came to sit and ponder
Those who may have sat down to cry
The many lovers perhaps inscribed in its oak
In the past dusk night of near December
I muse longer on the bench than I should
The man who built it, I reckon is passed on
Though his life's work is left here marking time
If ever someone should tire on the path
That they may stop to consider a course
My own bones perhaps could sit a spell
But running seems mildly less complex
The cool air is amass with unspoken secrets
Though perhaps the bench would hear them
Keep them well sure, like many others before