wounds heal, leaving scars
like morbid stones on greens

Escape

Fucking headache. Fucking genetic disposition.
Fucking wars, Sunday church bells, conspiracies
and conspiracy theories,
fucking bombs and white vans and blasphemy,
fucking death lurking around every corner, on the
110th floor or near a hovel in Bangladore;
Cerberus is a damned dog and there's sons of bitches
everywhere,
the gates of hell are never guarded, but what the hell
let's fuck and make it all go away.

That is the way, at least, that's what they say.
You know, those folks, with wisdom words so wrong,
while fucking up the words to every song,
because they just can't leave well enough alone.

trochaic attempt;

That’s the way, at least, that is what is said.
Knowing folks, with wisdom words so wrong,
fucking up the lines in every single song,
all because they can’t leave any thing untouched.

You say you want forgiveness
For all of the wrong you've done
In putting the blame on me

My blood runs cold
At the thought of this
Then begins to do a slow boil

Leaving one
Seriously ill
To fend for themselves alone
Gone from sun to sun
Without so much as a call home

Undergoing so many tests
Not knowing what was wrong
I could have died at anytime
Left ill and on my own

What hurts the most
Is the lie you told
To those that offered their help

When the world seems
Dark and gloomy,
You shine upon my life
Like the morning sun

You are the moon
With your nightly beauty
that helps me rest
In peaceful sleep

The stars blush
At the brightness
You project
Upon a poor soul like me

Your are like the plants
Which bring the air I breath
And each breathe I take
helps me live for you.

The calming waters of the earth
Are as free as every thought
You impart to me
With clarity to my tortured soul

A black smoke column grows in height
in New York on such a fine fall day
and it leads to a wondrous sight
heroes running toward it, not away

At the five sided eagle's heart
another shining silver spear of war
signaled a new existence's start
but condensed resolve within our core

In Pennsylvania's cool crisp air
when passengers foresaw their fate
heroic actions sprouted there
the first charge against the ones who hate

the tipping point
turns
the road is smooth
but not yet traveled
creature comforts for a fool's paradise,
what do I know, for example?

the night is long and dark in the algid breath
of winter and spring comes on forever
no matter the discontented hour.
I'm just an old fool sometimes,
my body is my cage, my mind a sharpened weapon
lacking courage to pluck out my own eyes, strange
thoughts govern;

lay beneath the window
where the cool breath
falls in across the sill plate
through the tired metal
screen that holds the
squares of opaque rain

each crucial star a beacon

each breath a prayer
on fresh sun dried sheets

"Our souls are imperfect"
we spoke aloud reading together
as the pines gathered the brilliant
dance of dusk
the lake shivering with gusts

we bear the imperfection like
a contusion on the mould

Standing Moral, or Grave Reason

What fate awaits me behind your withered look
is it but a friendly death or tortured consequence
Why would death befriend an idle miscreant like I
would I have deserved this blessed relief.

What and who gives you the right to torture souls
with your inefficient intellectual public school ways
No moral standing I would wager did you attain
under those marshalled mind manipulating masters.