i have seen the morning crash the back of the night running away from the future
i have witnessed shopping carts on fire devouring the food of my seeds
i have seen men lie to men as they’re life has lost it’s worth
i have witnessed a spirit come but in the opposite of peace pulling the sun and pushing the moon from me
leaf fallen dead drops
agonies at last far gone
green leaves now your fate
a kiss i
send to bless
the heads of
angels high above
my fleeting life
the feet of
men are slowly
bound by ties
with no direction
we enter into unknown constants through slithers of history and micro moments of pleasure the winds all colors melt into a netherworld void of all that is zero walk heavy boots through slaughtered leisure ribbon and bow dyed by blood of austere kings of known jungles keys boiling in rot of root upended by the daily news
clouds drift free and wild
the horizons step aside
my wide eyes follow
i have no desire to stop and smell flowers or tell my friend about the aroma of bread in the morning breeze i have earned the right to just wander off in these unbelievable streets barefoot to squander the last of my life i have no interest in looking for the art in my face or the strength of my wrists i have a need to talk to myself about the world that scorns me and finally be at peace to embrace the underground in solitude
rarely did i see
waves of forgiveness cleanse me
i feel my rest now
RIP MR the world can’t hurt you no more…
we great grand children
acorns plucked from branches
strewn across the roads
on a whim of damnation herself
still in the red we toil
rot away on bended knee
collecting rejection in reusable bags
we cry not for pain anymore
sedated we sit and lay down
to partake in the ruthlessness of abandonment
running from time outside
chased by ruin and stain
deep a vault secrets
tell of themselves
two lights we are
far apart unexplained
Horus sees his eyes
in our face looking
inward by the outward pull
the wax puddle
is cold my thoughts shut
down for the night
i sigh chest tight
radio silent stars
not in the sky
gray clouds instead
look up across ceiling
cobwebs caught in memory
fluttering in preparation
for dreams
words less spoken 