Threads bare on the woolen blanket.
Itchy fibers weaved together
complete the tapestry.
On soft strings lays a mighty castle.
Two tall towers loom over a booming base.
Bricks of red, brown timber, complete its' massive barricades.
A pull strains the fabrics.
Slowly it rips.
These mighty walls,
that withstood sieges
and fires,
collapse.
A hair alone has little use.
Together, each makes the yarn stronger.
A work of beauty and utility crafted from nothing.
But, like all things that come together,
everything falls apart.
A kingdom comes to an end.

Pleasantly, the minister finishes his sermon.
"...and so go forth my flock, and do good.
The good in your heart. In the name of..."
An urge comes over him.
Something from his old life,
but he resists.
"civil service." He finishes.
The words leave an empty feeling in his gut,
but he smiles from his pulpit.
The wooden pews in front of him clatter,
as the occupants vacate.
The huddled masses move under the golden arches
and out into the fresh spring air.
He stands, transfixed on the ever present dust.
The broken glass windows flood the room with sunlight
for the dust to dance airily around.
In his mind, he has gone to that feeling.
Lately, his mind had been coming back to it more and more.
Like a pimple growing under his skin,
as soon as his attention slipped,
his subconscious would float back over to pick at it.*
A younger version of him stood in front of a mirror.
The new white robe brightened the whole room.
It was his first. He was ready to lead.
This was what he was meant to do.
This was good.
This was before The Secularity.
*Attached were memories.
He was cowering in a corner naked.
"Drink this." A cup was placed to his lips.
He was too scared to run.
There was no choice to refuse.
He knew what happened next.
It would be bad.
*Each spoke to him.
In his arms, he supported a figure with long brown hair.
A girl. A soon to be mother
with a child out of wedlock.
He rubbed her back.
"It will be ok." he soothed.
*An argument of images...
"My kids!" A tiny woman cried at him, "They're starving!"
He had seen her before.
The short cut, blonde hair.
A fancy dress on her pudgy body.
Rings on her stumpy fingers.
Outside a bar in the early morning.
*Muddled.
"Enough!"
He spoke to the ghosts that inhabited his mind.
He found no rest there. No answers.
He retreated to his study.

 

Like a focus through a lens,
I see the stars' different light.
They can twinkle like bells,
and illuminate the night.
A laugh leaves my lips,
when I know it's all, alright.
But, when a lamb escapes,
as they are wont to do,
I fear for the rose
of a friend I once knew.
The difference in lenses
force a different perspective.
A cage or a park?
The world is reflective
of our thoughts in the dark.

Beyond the corner lies the alley,
where deadly lies await.
And in the streets lie the dead,
where weighted lies confess.
Through out this day of delay
life is laid to rest.

John stood up as the all clear sounded. He had not been hurt. The mortar missing him by a football field or more, had not detonated. He was deep enough in his base to never experience direct fire. The occasional IDF had been an inconvenience at most. Even so, something inside him had died this time. He walked back to his work station quietly. Around him the chatter was picking up. All cares of any threat forgotten in the drunk haze of laughter and bravado. He smiled when someone joked to him, but his mind was not there. It was still on the ground, listening. Fate, karma, pure chance had tested him. He felt as though he had failed. What did it mean? He seemed to stand on a hill of sand, that had once been a mountain stretching into the sky. A tower of certainty reduced to rubble in seconds. All it took was a whistle. The ground, dusty, had mixed with his sweat and left an wet outline. It died there. A piece of who he had been. A piece of who he thought he had been. It was there, when he laid down and heard the whistle from above. A Schrodinger's cat of death. Unseen, so unknown. His thoughts raced to acceptance. Accept it they said. Death is coming. But he couldn't. Inside something pulled against it. A superstition. If he accepted it, would he seal his fate? Control over something already per-destined? His mind shuttered and the walls collapsed. He would die in fear. A heritage passed down since the first creature to feel. The unremarkable, forgettable death, that would go out without barely notice. Another number in the history books.
John stood up when the all clear sounded. A piece of him remained on the ground listening to the whistle as the mortar flew overhead.

Another sleepless night,
because a face won't leave.
Or do I tempt it to stay.
A race begins.
The heart.
The mind.
The spirit.
All thrown round the corners.
You grip as tight as you can,
daring to push further and further.
You move towards catastrophe,
and immortality,
each a side of the razor's edge.
When there's no time for fear,
primal instinct is your guide.
It is wild
and savage
and free!
The moment passes,
leaving you skittering out!
Out into the unknown black.
When certainty is gone,
she lets you know what it feels to be alive. 

A red splash on a canvas,
that was covered in dreary brown,
heavy black,
mildew yellow,
shocks the senses.
The monotonous colors smeared high,
like mountains of Mordor,
sludge the the once white sheet.
In them life is a spiritless trek.
One that most know and accept,
confined for so long in a bland prison.
But the red is new,
something primal,
yet long forgotten.
Like fresh blood,
or the smell of sex in the air.
It sings deep into the caverns.
To hearken it's call,
is to give in to assured destruction.
To not is living death.

Stuck in a job with dirty walls.
Peeling plaster and cheap wallpaper
accompany me. 
The T.v. is showing
another commercial
that I do not wish to see.
It's telling me, while selling me,
a lifestyle of now.
I look at the fixings, the unhinged door,
and the escape box on my wall.
I close my eyes and think of trees in the fall,
someplace that I've been before. 

Writing, like bad poetry comes from the ego.
I do not know how to strip it naked.
The false promises of the world whispered by snake oil.
It doesn't go up or down.
And the end.

Curtains move with a breeze.
The light plays on the wall.
First, full sail. Then closed modern robe.
The hot sweat sex, leaves the sheets damp.
Or the sick body shivers and sweats.
Parallels of a diseased mind.

I speak not of holy harmony,
for I have only glanced that way.

I started on this road looking for something new.
I was set to be a savant,
an original.
Up their with Pablo, Hitchcock, and Rembrandt.
But I never started down a path,
each was already tread.
I thought it wasn't worth it.
I was stuck in my head,
a place of no escape,
where excuses kept me hostage.
Always a reason to never go.
The bullshit piled up,
the ego grew,
but I was not happy
it was my heart that knew.
So,
I moved.

This man in my head,
became a monster instead.
A mythical beast to slay.
Inhabited with greed,
it filled my need
to be better then he.
But, now I see,
the veil of deception dropped,
that he is just as human as I.
To let go of the competition,
the hate, and moral superiority,
has let me free.

Another late night,
Alone with the rain.
Pitter, patter drops blend
with the soft noise of music
coming from my radio.
It leads me mind back to a time,
when a warm body lay next to me
listening the rain.
My emotions mirror my lonely thoughts.
But the song comes on,
just
in time,
to take me away again.

Patience for the answers.
Some questions are not ready.
They must truly fester,
before they bloom
in your mind.
Awakening a sense of wonder,
and an inkling of a thought,
that you may have more influence
on the world around,
then could possibly be imagined.

Less tangible then paper,
these keystrokes are nothing.
But, that is what makes it so special.
My words in your head with no other connection.
And even though you may not know me,
and I may never you,
here we are talking.
So, I just want you to know,
whoever you are,
wherever you are,
just know
you are loved.

Home,
I want to go.
Just to fall apart
and start again.
Home,
That's where I want to go.
To pick up all the little pieces,
once again.
To rest my weary bones,
to ease my troubled mind,
to see my things (long forgotten),
My life,
My hearth,
My home. 

Hey, I still remember you. How could I forget?
I cherish these memories dearly.
Like I've been stripped of everything I once was.
Now naked, I hold this locket to my chest.
An unpolished faux-gold locket.
Tarnished and dented.
Meaningless trash for others, but I hold on.
How could they understand?
When I dare open it,
to revisit the past,
spinney thorns latch on to my heart.
Maybe, we can take a midnight stroll to a nearby college.
Or smoke a J in the woods, while our parents sleep blissfully unaware.
Or get our heads funny and drive. The world never seemed so small, as it revolved around us in that car.
Or skip school, just to hang out.
Or
Or
Or....
And my heart bleeds.
I know those times are gone,
and maybe I'm the only one who holds on.

I used to see through the whole glass,
not just a glass half full.
The telescopic lens was thick green, like the bottom of a vase,
that could see right through the bullshit that seems to cover everything.
Maybe,
the optimism of youth*
(*A willing ignorance to avert the eyes from the puzzle pieces that don't fit in my interpretation of what life is, was, will be.)
is to blame.
Seeing the truth that life is a non-sequitur,
an incoherent rambling,
a hodgepodge,
a complete shit show,
where words and actions can never be truly understood.
Love hurts the hardest when all you want to do is share it.
But past fears creep forth, panic sets in and the shell gets thrown up.
Sometimes you do it for yourself,
then you realize, that it may be for the benefit of others.

The cage,
made of rusty lies and iron wills,
is set.
Built to prison fierce beasts
with golden manes or royal plumage,
whose talons and claws
rapped the floors and walls
til fresh blood glistened
on dull metal.
Their being cries out to be free.
But,
the gawkers stand outside
with gaping maws,
amused by the dumb beasts.

The snow hung heavy on the trees,
muffling the ever restless forest.
An celestial calm.
Crunch.
Footstep breaks the silence.
Crunch, Crunch.
Determined boots forge through the pure surroundings.
Crack, sploosh.
Body slipped into a torrid river,
leaving a hole in the ice
and footprints.

I lay down another thread. Strung across my mind, it connects; observations with ideas, or dreams with reality. Since we were kids, we have all been building these webs. Only we know the intimate details of the sprawling chasm. Every memory tethered to an emotion. This vast net creates and manipulates our life. In the continuing search for something new, original, fresh, Real: I have become entangled. A fly trapped. These looping thoughts have me stuck.