Dead men’s lament

Dead men’s lament

Slashing at the air with

razor blade bloody mind,

cursing the divine,

for impotence.

Self importance,

driving into the sun,

forsaken sons,

forward into dawn,

to the setting sun.

Trodding in the dust,

loving luster wanderlust,

facsimile of some august

roman ghost.

Can’t be blamed

for wanting washington’s face,

on the mountain side,

pitied more besides.

the immortals are dead,

and, so are the souls,

of those who would stand in their stead.

Life is all there is,

so,

spending it in pursuit of perfection,

is not the same as living it well. 

Donkey Ride

That carrot is just five inches away,

dangling by twine.

The love of the chase is fine,

if the fire is still there,

that can be devine,

to crave that shine.

What’s not is the loss of time,

what’s given up in the mean,

the things that could have been,

can be all that’s ever had,

that and the sad,

sad, slog through joyless jobs.

All in pursuit of that malevolent non-fruit,

dangling just out of reach.

Plaque

I can feel my heart hardening

more acutely these days.

Once my heart burned

and warmed with its rays.

Now it’s burned out,

as though the sadness were wet,

the ones I love have become ones I don’t.

and their hurt has become my regret.