1 Down 42 to Go

I look onto the beach

Where your footprints lead

The seagulls flock, they scream Penelope

As the sobering sun,

Embellishes the tree

My window is my Ithica

It is almost the beginning

Did you know the watch hand remains,

With everlasting poise?

The clocks mock my rocking

And the eyes on the wall silence mental noise

Will you show me the office?

Of the dazzling finch

As I focus on the seal,

So withering balanced in blue

But how if only it rested in comforted

Within the nest I knew

A moment without him

Is one that remains

And must I ask the Heavens if there’s anything I owe

Because the wait was nothing

For there is eternally

1 down, and 42 to go

Pulling the strings

'Twas Not the Dawn of Spring

'Twas not the dawn of Spring
But nor was beauty timid
A maize found its way
to the breasts of its mother
Yet a reckless force overtook her
And ignorance raped her mind
And life was forever cruel
To all but mankind

Silence

I lift my head
but my eyes scream
They burn into the sun
But the sun is a dream

The soul in the sky
Rains red on the valley of death
My words choke on air
And can't find last breath

Engulfed in the flame
I am the chariots biting
I try to go on
But no use in fighting

The screams! From whom do they come?
I seek
But there is no one around
I am the only one

It attacks myself
With a wrath a violence
But suddenly nothing more
Only the sound of silence

Price of Freedom

Servitude to the market
Entraps my mind
Salvation is hidden
But it comes at price
I offer my balance
But I am deceived
It’s not enough
So I lend my all
But can never again see
And perpetually fall

What is the price of salvation?
What must I pay?
Tempted with a deal
With no time to delay

My satisfaction, guaranteed
I drawl over my blood
Addicted to the dollar
That I no longer posses
I am lone
I am bare
My soul was stolen
A victim of a lie,
Capitalism was the perpetrator
The wine sippers blame me,
And laugh at my cry

Slippery Slumber

Consciousness sleeps
The dream is alive
Cloud of smoke overcomes,
before clarity arrives.
The trip from the synapse
guides the path to the sun
Wings proliferate from the spine
And the soul is overcome.
Endorphins knock on the door of righteousness
And Breach the hidden wall
And until tomorrow
We are conflicted
With completely nothing at all

The Bird in the Basement

Rummaging past the artifacts

Hidden within the chests

Air looms and pearling blooms

And elementary tests

In the basement it was serene

As I stood by myself

Admiring The Sun's dusty dream

And accumulation on history's shelf

Yet my journey was interrupted

A noise, perhaps a call

Rattled between the oak boards

And danced off the rugged walls

What creature produced such a sound?

A chirping,

Churning my gears

And trespassing my ears

And spun my head around?

A little bird,

Singing for me

Trapped in the basement

Perhaps, waiting to be free

A little bird,

Who could barely see

Trapped in the basement

But not planning to flee

Little bird,

How long have you dwelled here?

Comfortable with the shame,

Beak in our past

Or forever stationary in fear?

Little bird your decisions, so stark

Leave this warehouse

Leave the basement

And find comfort at the park

Refreshing winds

Whirl the patient fans

Removing the rust of 13 years

Knowing that this is your land

Don’t worry about me

Sing for them

And seduce them with your charm

Home is calling

Stretch your wings

And we’re frolic in the east

As the fruits ripen on the farm







Can you guess what this is a metaphor to?

A Baltimore Stroll

I wrote this several years ago as a flow of consciousness.

My stroll down the block lit dimly by the street lamps to a cold drizzle, determining whether the great center of civilization which seems so lonely was worth appreciating for peacefulness or questioning the frightening silence. The evening suddenly disturbed by the interruptions of cricket's midnight jazz session, from the domineering breathes of that like an organ- which only breathes the fire of blind terror. The stroll, a tornado sweeps into the churning of pistons sent from mother, panting, running, looking back, but must i, who's that, what’s there, i mustn't, sweating, is it the rain or me? Justice was it, clueless it was, life, torture and the pursuit- the pursuit of horror seemed to be the only guarantee to this world. I hear the echoes of the clashing of bone against the surrounding windows, peering out was only the darkness of curtain pioneers, they beat to the rhythm of a native war chant, who could this be, the vicious snake who bites at my ankles, or death himself breathing at my neck?