Damn! there goes another poet
off to the land of nonmeter
overstressed about the stresses
made to write outside of rhyme
(though he did it this one time)

Syllables spoken naturally
though in a southern dialect
even when spoken out loud
stressed and unstressed run together
as his head turns into mush

Losing count of all the lines
as he slowly loses his small mind
while sitting in the padded room
trying to write trochaically

And there is always someone in more pain,
a hunger to which I can not relate.
Someone who's anguish, borders on insane.
Someone with so much more upon their plate.

And what right do I have to make complaint?
What horrors have I suffered on this Earth?
Empty canvas devoid of hope or paint,
a victim from the moment of Its birth.

What right have I to morn upon its grave?
What solace gathered should I end it's plight?
What false anger unfurls the flags we wave?
And what would be the point, to win its fight?

there are shadows
written on the land
like bloodstained
pursuits
like abandoned holy grounds
where sacred spirits dwell

where snow falls
the dead ash of ideals

there are stirring currents
flickering
brilliant like the hot want
of sunlight on a chilled day
and Moons swift in passage
through a month of pain

for all the lost
and all the found
the truths will
be

and all shall see

Round orbs of light swirl in the dark night sky
Which float above an endless world of hate
Their light absolves all fear of youthful death
The wars, they rage around our children's souls
Disease and hunger steal their life away
Here in this war torn world no one is safe
Children look to these strange orbs for comfort
They hope that when they die they will go there