Selection One

Selection one dictates.

This frail logic negates

My heart

And blows apart reason

That never rated or related

My hopeless ego.

A stain that drips

And spreads through skin

Is akin to my dearth.

My birth a mistake

I mistook for a miracle.

I can walk and talk

And feel the vehement sounds

Of the open sky

Rumbling...

Tumbling...

Forward and back.

I am sick with pity

For all the witty things

Never spoken.

Only broken limbs or broken hearts

To pull apart what motive

To move.

I am a dying breed,

I need the resurrection

Of a selection

I can limit to one.

Relation Association

Hard-pressed for redemption,

The savior responds with greed,

My need is crushed by waves

Of illness rising like a snake in the abdomen,

Spreading into the pockets of love

To poison and dispatch.

This despondence endures.

We can dialogue for hours

Ending with the sour lies

That keeps my brain awake

In a state of shock and allure.

Oh, how these fabrications

Have overcome my elation

And swindled me into seclusion

Of my own vocation.

For I do admit I am an idealist,

So these lies I attend to,

I bend to my own satisfaction,

Because happiness is only

But a fraction of what I feel.

And the rest is merely a test

That time will authenticate.

It’s never too late to change.

Ode to Obligations

Listen:

Can you hear that faraway clamor?

Perhaps, Poseidon’s ploy to destroy

Our own recited scheme...

Closer than remains, the sea, the holy scene,

And the acreage advancing like a rampart between.

That tumultuous din that reverberates across the tilted plains of this old world,

Connective tissues to something new.

Our own barren flesh made weak by impotence of voyage,

And theory, askew.

Arbitrary sway, this day is another’s, not our own.

So refrain be our only hope,

And through a hallowed scope,

We pray for home.

Punishing Passion

I’d like to hear a song that doesn’t preach of passion,

For I am weary of such banter.

There is proof that love is only fashion,

By the claim of the enchanter.

Let us live by the charm of reticence,

If only for a day,

And divide the sick and sorrowful,

Let loving words betray.

Though next to kin, the skin I’m in,

Seems less like royal rind,

The sequence of love’s frequency

Enamors both our kind.

So drawn together, torn apart,

This story does amend,

Our hearts like damaged turbines

Pumping crudely to contend.