When we were Kings.

uprooted and joyous, white dashes and solid yellows, a highway a home, a kick drum for a pulse, past lives seem like better days, well equipped to misbehave, things became and would later become, no questions or indecision, we left it all to chance and it worked out perfectly.

Each state a new moon, each sun a different shade of yellow, I could feel the earths pulse before dawn, and in those moments of darkness, insanity would strike only to create clarity.

Black sheep, stomping feet, swinging fists, colossus in bloom, and the smell of that old conversion van, absorbing the smell of sweat and the aching to live life less a mess.

A tall tale or big fish, each story seemingly taking its own breaths, how eerily familiar the hum and whistle of feedback becomes.

We got older, grew further, and knew that "Things Fall Apart."

And even when it was over, it lived on, assuming new forms.

It was perfect.

perfect.

per.

Colossus

The water will come rushing,
the hail will come streaming down,
but no hell will take me,
no god will make me drown.

Drenched and in search of salvation.

No sun to burn my skin,
no thirst to my tongue,
my crooked teeth preaching,
of all the good I've done.

Slowly adapting to damnation.

Rebuilding statues,
loss of life and lack of sleep,
all to someday worship,
at the ground below our feet.

Following a blanket of security.

Mother earth to comfort me,
and the stars to tuck me tight,
steadfast but writhing,
solid yellows and dashed whites.

Modern man taking me.

Yet do you hear it now,
the light sigh of relief,
the hope built in each man,
the promise of belief.

I am home here now.

Conflicting Reports of Disaster

Did you feel the wind pick up?
The nor'easter is moving in,
quickly the tides push forward,
charging the beach,
remembering Normandy on the Atlantic,
old souls surging
from that hazy blue,
and the world spitting down,
leaking life,
and all this destruction
brings me rest.

The crash,
the rush,
large boom,
followed by silence,
flash,
boom,
the rush,
the silence.

Repetition is endless.

dip your toes in,
not knowing whats underneath.
Those old friends,
buried breath,
waiting to grab hold,
and so remains,
that undertoe.

I fear those moments of clarity,
because its followed by death,
but I guess the sun don't shine forever.

wish to blush in your thoughts and pray for eternity in your absence.

I saw him grasp a handful of dust
and watch it run through his hands,
his time is endless.

Love

I have accepted death, disease, trepidation, and trials,
as constants of life and thereafter,
swallowed my words and put my best foot forward,
but do not completely grasp their constants.
I have yet to move through the mud encrusted veneer
of time's shackles.
I have not made haste in accomplishing great goals,
in the face of what in my own opinion is the unknown,
the fluid,
the ever after.
Yet, that sickle waits for me, hanging high,
and I make no moves to dodge it.
I make no footholds in mountains, or strive to reach mountaintops,
I just remain as moss on this rock below my feet.
I remain as rain water, to lay stagnant until I'm recycled to the earth.
And all those times I wait, in deafening silence,
making no moves forward or backward,
no choices in Robert Frost's wood.
As the tall pine stands,
rooted and unwilling to leave,
I have accepted all punishments that follow
a man unwilling to reach past the circumstance that has placed him here.
I've become a heart unwilling to fit the pieces back together,
a room with no light,
a night without dawn.

For I have died, because I refuse to live,
as an artistic statement,
as a lack of reason,
as a moment of clarity,
as only half of the whole.

Sparticus

The dim light rotates through the room,
from a pane glass window, standing the test of time,
I sit and wonder on things unknown,
delve into the deep conscious of inconsistency,
all things being, all things alone.

and death walks with all men,
he just walks a little closer to me.

these moments of clarity, are my moments of insanity,
my vibrant imagination, painted think in red ink,
on padded walls, straight bars, and white fabric,
we are all unclean, we are all the divide,
a clear cut act of defiance to rule us all.

I will not go, for I am free,
and from slumber I've awoken,
to retake me.



I hear it coming,
time opts to tick by,
click, tock, go the hands of clock,
spinning in the gyre
loose and uninviting.

Goodbye Emerald City,
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,
Goodbye unfortunate miss,
I'm going home.