The winter highway calls me home…

[Originally published 12-17-2015]

The winter highway calls me home
To where my love lies sleeping;
For I have carried secrets long,
Far past their time for keeping

The many roads I’ve driven on
Are fading, as the light
Comes timid with the nascent dawn;
I see an end to night

How many habits must I break?
How many lies be spoken?
The time is now for me to take
And fix all that I’ve broken

The winter highway calls me home
To where my love lies sleeping;
For I have carried secrets long,
Far past their time for keeping

The Sun Sets on the Standing Stones

The widsom that I seek seems out of reach.

The sun sets on the standing stones.
The clouds, the moon, the stars still move in track.
The widsom that I seek seems out of reach,
And questioners and doubters, still catch flack

Especially from those who pose as questioners.
These hunt down searchers with great indignation:
Returning then to palaces of folly
In orgasms of self-congratulation

The Picture Clear

Sometimes we paint the picture clear;
The days of winter love and joy —
But others know a different truth:
The lonely girl, or lonesome boy

Who wear the mask of perfect lies
From our encyclopedia
That we the outside world will show
By means of social media.

The truth is mixed, it’s good and bad –
But we don’t share the story —
Instead we manufacture words
And hide amid the glory

Of thinking that we’ve won at life.
We stow away admissions,
And take an empty sort of pride
In winning
“Competitions”

Sic Transit Gloria Nihil

(or “Old Poem, Written Age 18”)

We live in a world full of false attribution,
Where people smear filth and then call it ablution;
Where lies are the most common type of pollution,
And all that gets over are cheaters and cons —

We breathe in the air of congenital aping,
Our souls full of holes that are growing and gaping
While no word of truth from our lips is escaping,
Misleading our brothers and sisters, our pawns —

We die in this place of eternal damnation
Without ever knowing we’re needing salvation;
And wait till the last to feel our consternation,
And only then claiming our crimes to forswear —

We’re buried with all that is totally rotten,
And sooner than later, we’re all but forgotten,
And wrapped in our silks or our nylon or cotton
We still try to speak, but we don’t have a prayer

One Drawback of Imagination

There are some, and this is one.

The things that I remember are
Far better than the truth;
I find these nonexistent clues
Like some great pseudo-sleuth

I make a past that never was
From castles in my mind;
While yet the boy I really was
Gets farther left

Behind