No more difference


We walk a straight path
only to return to where we started.
Roads guided by a wind,
that blows from the
south to the north,
repetitiously over and over again.

Advertisements


If I could live my life
to love the right, and not do wrong,
could I see my soul through your eyes?
Heaven calls through locked doors.

What have I done?
What have I done?

If I could live my life
to love the right, yet do the wrong?
Could I see my soul through hollow eyes?
I’ve locked Heaven’s doors.

What have I done?
What have I done?

If I could live my life again,
could I see your soul as I saw mine?

Everchanging


It’s like starting at one
and jumping to one-hundred
an instantaneous change
from one value to another
as shapes mold
a three dimensional figure
across a plane
of meticulous fibers
that erode and grow
simultaneously to evolve
into something new

Ode to the Past


The thoughts of the past
linger over my mind,
like clouds on a rainy day.
Where did I go wrong?
Somethings just can’t stand
up to the things I once knew
and loved as if they were a part of me.
Faces of the old and new,
all vagabonds to my limitless
delusions of right and wrong.
Sometimes I just don’t understand;
the things I could’ve done, should have,
now gone and forgotten,
along with myself and the face I once held.
These memories tear through me,
reminding me of a once-and-forgotten lore
of priceless encounters of flesh and blood.
Evermore, things remain the same,
doors opening and closing at will
and hiding things I just can’t hold on to.
Relentless, to say the least.
Just and ode to memories to delusions
I no longer need.

Away


A trail of vanity
leading to me,
into the trees –
to my home.
If I am haunted,
my home becomes a loss,
my options then expire,
no choice but to run…
Run away to my home.
The baying of
a threat tortures me,
my haunting’s testimony.
Away from my redemption,
soon no longer,
an ease to my destruction…
No choice but to run,
run away from my home.

The Art of Dieing


The fear is rational from
faith in a living purgatory.
Bombarded day-by-day,
with an hourglass
dropping grains of life
to count down to the end.
Despair lies within each grain;
each one a memory
of a life lived short.
Envious of another…
The lust summons
ignorance over arrogance;
an elated sense
of undernourishment,
soon turned to sloth
from the gluttony
of a prideful being.
A wrath posed
the weaving of creations,
integrated from
the greed of a
passionless life.

Forgotten Memories / Reverie


My reflection fades
the epitome of my being.
The demons inside
yearn for release in agony

My conscious sitting
in this room of four white walls.
No windows, no doors
held prisoner in the wake
of a nightmare.

Memories of time passed,
dense and heavy, no doubt.
Concealed within a mass of
grey-matter and osseous tissue.