Many days I feel like a worn blanket Tossed around and only used for picnics Used and abused, but thankful for the company Relieved someone still finds warmth in me Even if it's only fleeting Once or twice a summer
Tag: writer
Old Road
One more mile to go
A short distance on this road
I’ll take this on my own
I’ll tread the dust alone
The forest is claiming lives
On the side of this road
Stare past the trees
Look to the skies
There’s joy in the stars
What a paralyzing notion
In the commotion
Leaf
The scrape of a leaf against the sidewalk
Rough, cruel, even inhumane
Yet somehow thrilling in the breeze
It is the knowledge of what something represents
That is stronger than the impression of its actual form
A person who cannot speak or gesture
Their mind firing on all cylinders
Often viewed as that fleeting, long-dead leaf
Yet filled with the color and beauty of autumn
Is It?
Maybe we’ve taken a long hard look at ourselves
Seeing with dry, burning eyes that this is not who we are
Or is it?
Cynicism is the tissue that surrounds the scars
Conspiracy is the gauze that fills the void
Is optimism a shattered virtue?
With enough substance to make out the shape
But not enough to piece it together?
Embers
Embers and sinew
Voices resound
The fires of progress
Met with boots on the ground
None of us can breathe
Until all of us can breathe
Strange Rituals
Strange rituals
The beaked mask
Is donned no longer
In its stead
Plexiglass and cloth
The same wall
Between sick and well
Will the hazmat suit
Instill the same terror
Centuries later
As the plague doctors of old?
Change
There is never growth
Where the ground is not readied
Untilled soil
Is never ready for change
Descale the heart
Raw and afraid
Is the only way to listen
The only way to pray
Feel more than you think
The fear felt by others
Making your own heart race
Your feet in the same place
Other Minds
I suppose we all have visions
That we carry to the dirt
High minded goals and creative urges
Most of which never come to be
Patents that are never filed
Books that won’t be written
Dreams that leave with the oxygen
From brain matter, in the end
Are the thoughts we have
Those which crossed other minds before?
The only difference being
We take the time to write them down
While the older mind wrote down others?
Role Call
A tentacled masculine life
Of backyards and meat
Grass tidy and neat
You found yourself a wife
Is it all so toxic
If you found peace
In a role call
To feed and heat
Not for you
Yes for me
It just ain’t me babe
In this we’re not the same
Maybe the only life I’ll lead
Is of anonymity and femininity
Paperish
Every now and then
I find a balance
Optimism that’s paper white
Not yellowed by time
Or wrinkled by tears
My mind inside a paper lamp
Lifted by a breeze
Carried by the wind
I don’t want to come down
From that glowing height
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