Walking on a windy, late night crooked street. I call to my city,
To play that soft bassline beat. The one that captures,
The red shade from cheeks. Tonight, I step with ease.
Fresh oiled springs,
Bring a bounce, back into my knees.
Full moons are a flourish for the freaks.
Yet in this dark veil, only loneliness presents a hand,
To dance with me.

I bow at the honor. Emptiness is just the face I need, to imagine,
A smile that never takes its leave. In this heartbeat of a dream,
Moments mirage, and recreate my most cherished scene, from
Our midnight movie marriage, when the space between,
Was only the frills of your dress and,
The stitching on my jeans.

No man is free that speaks from a cage.
Choke chains spiked to the dirt,
Sweat feeds the fields like rain.
With calloused hands,
The nameless toil away. Fed a morsel,
From a fistful of grain.
Praying for clouds to shelter the sun;
If only for a day.
A famine of hope. Straw cities of the voiceless,
Screaming silence.

I sit on the seat of a silent hill, watching hope stripped bare
Like tender flesh ripped from the bone. Where do I go from here?
The words in this world, are poisoned with pain.
Even the ink on this wrinkled page decays, like
Receding waterways that turn rivers
Into mass graves. Every frontier turns to a last bastion.
No decadence can dress the dead. Sunken souls
Weighed down by boots of lead. Work and worship.
Open plains become a purgatory for the horseless.

What is it that makes me miss
The lighter fluid on your lips. Toothaches from a temptress,
And her candy kiss. Arm’s elastics wrap me up. So foreign,
Is this human touch. Like a siren she swims and sings,
To lure me close enough to clutch. An ephemeral embrace,
That chews me out and spits me up.
Love eats hearts for lunch.

Laying in bed today, listening to tunes
          As I so often do
A feeling encroached, one I could not shake
          Or attempt to lose
The sound of sadness, through the microphone
          Blew the dust from my aging bones
Sunlight diffused, into the tomb
          Of my desolate room
Shadows scattered, from their thrones
          To reveal four walls of stone
Flowers dressed, this cold gray place
          Where I woke from rest
Bare and unburdened, my blemished fleshed took its first steps
          Bent but not broken, rebirthed, awoken

Down by the river I lie alone. Folks wade on the banks,
Sifting for gold. Washing the aches from their brittle bones.
This land of the forgotten, has never felt so close to home.
Detached from the blood-oiled machine,
Not much to part with, but
Every footstep carries with it
An imprint of meaning. The current here
Flows away from greed. Deposits into a reservoir,
Of pure intentions and peace. Tucked away from the cracked city streets
That mirror the crying streaks of those bewitched by the banal belief
Of progress by any means. Power here,
Is a drink for the weak. The outstretched arms of willow trees,
Cradle this quaint town. The last bastion of human passion. Bereft of malevolence.
Indeed, the realms of Hell seem to have a slice of heaven left.

Time spent on the faceless. Smooth skin turned abrasive
By the scaled scars, my broken heart has created.
Serrated blades of blame pierce our veins and,
Trickle down pain through broken water mains.

A gluttons dinner bell hangs above the poor’s poisoned well.
Dead men don’t feast. Lead a horse to water and,
Wait for it to drink. Watch the self-defeat. Hand-made desolation by men with no faces.
Puppet string desperation keeps us in our places.