"Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn."
pretend again for me
pretend again for you
it didn’t need to end
the false can still be true
the days before the the lies were known
they form a sort of schism;
we’re trapped within the colored bars
that constitute
our prism
[it’s all pretend… owen]
Past the surface
Much is moving,
Much we never see —
What we take for calm
Is often
Quite disorderly.
If we do not
Look beyond
Surfaces or faces,
We are prone
To miss the truth,
At its very
Basis
[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
We all believe the lies
When they’re repeated oft enough —
We think we are immune;
We think we recognize fake stuff —
But I’m not sure at all,
I’ve made mistakes, I bear the welts —
We fool ourselves, so tell me now:
Why couldn’t
Someone else?
back here, how strange it is, the heart is sore,
as memories like lies, and sons of lies
touch cold bare feet onto a frozen floor
beneath a ghost they sought to idolize
how comforting – the fault was never owned:
there need be nothing learned or set away
or carried into bright and awkward day
from pedestals where they have lived, enthroned
and stories, like a hive, are built and set:
the never-happened, covering regret
encapsulates, and keeps the real world out,
so progress can be stopped, along with doubt.
the old clock ticks, and day soon swallows night,
and never-can-be-wrong is never right
i see it as i wander by…
the world is beautiful and sad,
i see it as i wander by;
the good things that we want – so bad –
our reason – just an alibi –
the aching heart will know no peace;
the tired soul will find no rest —
the world is beautiful, but sad:
our worst is so mixed up in
all our best
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
