"Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn."
He let imagination play
And spill across each fevered page;
Of life spent at a breakneck pace,
Of love and hate and
Sex and rage
And peaceful moments that would touch
The hearts of any who might see;
But wonders now, and over-much,
If all of it’s
Not vanity
He wanted what he wrote to shine,
The brilliance of a million suns;
But now, he simply wants to write
Some thoughts that you’d read
More than once
(“On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer” – 7-11-2015)
“I’s” unknown,
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
Bygone days,
In rooms for healing,
Pass away:
We know this.
But we just
With our contumely
Carry on,
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
We think
It isn’t real, beyond,
A faint remaining
Crust
An echo, an
Enablement,
A bill of life
That’s elsewhere spent;
We needn’t hear
What there was meant,
Nor sit down to
Discuss
The primitives
Who came before,
Who lay in here,
Or built this door,
Whose tears and blood
Call from the floor,
“All dust is made
Of us —“
It’s easier to choose
Without so many roads,
It’s simpler to know
With no key that decodes
The many and the myriad
Of things beyond our pall —
But since we think we know,
We never learn
At all
Photo credit : ID 53775206 Deyangeorgiev | Dreamstime.com
We have known the music of emptiness,
and truth be told,
at times, we have sought it.
Times when we seek,
not to make sense of it all,
but to accept the senselessness
and vanity that comprises much
of life.
This is not sadness,
it is a hollowness:
this us not despair,
it is more like
resignation —
But it is also
a type of detoxification,
an emptying out
to allow for the possibility
of refilling.
The evil people do
Is manywheres at play;
It hides in power suits,
And seeks to rule the day,
But time’s a referee
And knows not foe or friend:
So power has its day,
But that day has
Its end
Who is it that we were,
And what was all that work?
Our one-day someday dreams
Are now met with a smirk
These cabinets we used
Are laughed at through the view
That vanities are fine
As long as they
Are new
A life led by blind desire,
Lurching toward the funeral pyre
Happenstance spun into meaning,
Private times spent posing, preening
Strings of words on worthless air,
Tableaus struck with no one there
Emptiness and vanity,
Sheltered by insanity
Carved from cells once formed by bliss:
So familiar
All of this
(“So Familiar” – 10-23-2014)
