Skin Deep

I sheered the black sheep,
That wool itched so, anyway.
It weighed me down in the heat of your indifference.
Woven cloak of your shame.
Your shame,
My other name.
Awarded to me like a trophy,
By you, my referee
How dare I not do as you did,
Unpresentable me.
Not draped upon the arm of a rich man,
Not sipping from a golden shoe.
Pride is a subtle thing,
A fragile wing on a tiny creature.
And subjectivity forgotten,
In the law of your land.
The tragedy of funerals had,
with empty graves.
Burying the dead,
while they still walk and talk,
But not to me.
And what beauty I inherited from you,
You, who bore me here.
I can only show
In pictures
and a looking glass.
Faded memories
And broken dreams.

Modern Man

The wretched, cursed man,

bent and weeping,

Walking as if a monument

to sold out souls,

Turning, turning,

face side to side,

but no one sees him.

Still, he saunters,

freely meandering

through streets of

golden auras,

all the promises

well packaged lies.

Smelling flowers

as he travels,

for they told him

if he did so,

stopped,

and smelled them,

life would mean,

something,

anything at all.

The Anger of The Dead

Are they haunted by

our deaths?

As we stand,

side by side,

surely they feel

the pressure

of all our

ghostly bodies.

We manage,

with all our might

and force,

thousands pressed

together,

a dripping sound,

that echoes

as if in a hall

behind their heads.

One looks up and seems to

wonder,

then returns to

the attentions

of the others.

And we’re left

to drip,

slowly,

drop by drop

in silence.

 

Life’s Blood

My blood,

it lies pooled

at the bottom of

a well.

In darkness,

it remembers my life,

it speaks of the fire

that once burned within me

as I lay awake at night,

contemplating my destiny.

What is the future

once it is the past?

What were those choices

that we either make,

or don’t make,

and is the difference

between the two

remembered?

Ship Wreck

I am a ship

wrecked upon the shores

that are not of my own making,

though for years I was fooled,

thinking that I was at sea,

rocked as I was by waves

that proved to be malicious,

if only for their indifference,

Lulled to sleep by their rhythm,

a catatonic lullaby,

perilous in its sweetness,

a confection made from the

blood of the unwitting,

It is a golden ocean,

this sea of dreams,

that laps on the sands

of the grand illusion,

and all I wanted was the sweet

fresh air,

They can keep their fortune,

all I wanted was the sweet

fresh air.

Holocaust of the Cherubim

Broken, you lay before me,

shattered limbs of plumpness, dimpled

with memory

of a time, innocent,

I am not sure how you,

winged creatures of Aphrodite,

armed and ready to inflict

the sting of Love’s bite,

became mired in our prescription

for you,

branded by our lust for

Love’s power,

snatching your quiver and bow

from your tiny grasp,

plucking the silken feathers

from your wings,

adorning ourselves,

like hollow birds of stone.

The sky, once filled

with glimpses of flittering

magic,

are now empty,

and though the fireflies

search for you on the summer nights,

they go home alone,

no longer lighting your paths,

no longer telling the world

your secrets.

Savage Child

You can hear their echo screams

as the winds carry them,

beings, who will never roam

again, whose lives we

squandered,

selfishly,

failed stewards,

insanely playing

in the filth of our indulgence,

while our mother screams

behind the door,

beaten,

bruised,

her blood filling the water

as we, her abuser,

pin her down.

Every woman bears the mark

of her disregard,

her subjugation,

once exalted upon a throne

of our knowing,

worshipped for providing us

with life,

she drowns in the sea,

her blood spilling,

her children dying,

as we sit idle by,

afraid to see we are

killing her,

Our mother,

We, Her children,

savagely.

When we could love her,

care for her,

but we are too important,

though would not exist,

without her,

no, we are too important,

though will not exist,

without her.

And when they say

there’s still time,

they are lying,

failed species,

because there is still time for her,

but there is no time

for the ego of mankind

which consumes us all.