shushing the din

oh hush now....let it mellow
we need those ripples
chaos serves the purpose
else life would be forever placid
conditioned
and vastly reflective

and touch?
though heated at first
must cool
a pot left to boil overlong
is left dry and carbonized
a mummified rendition
of a once lively bubble
warned, expected....then departed

and yes,
the loss is perpetual
ever echoing
in our unconditional pursuit
of the shedding of our reptilian skin
when the temperature is just right
we all do it
on that slippery path to shelter

a dip in the pool

you claim not to care
that nothing nor anyone can touch your inner core
that you are inviolate, shuttered, hard as ice

yet with four simple words....
the ripples shred your demeanor

for you see....
you transcend understanding
you defend the sacrifices
you comprehend forgiveness

with just four simple words
spoken softly, almost unnoticed
as they slip into the waters

......but i loved her

blistered errands

tiptoe across that blistered field
do not disturb said occupants
the waves generated
when you trip the sand's withered hairs
will evacuate into a tsunamic
blast of loathing
i do not care for you
i don't even acknowledge your
resistance
most would ponder your
reasons for space
some would question even your right
i on the other hand
refuse to give you one micronic itch
of satisfaction
why should i?
i've come back across that field
littered with the disposable carcasses
of novices on fool's errands
can you say the same?

fade out....

....fade in

slowly, there is focus

my....eyes
....open?

where am i
who am i
what am....wait

one minute
there is nothing
the next....

the surroundings are always the same
but how do i know this?
a wall floats up out of....
and shapes
round....clock?
square....how do i KNOW this?
ugliness, those colors....wha....what is color?

a pause
an....exhalation
what else can one do?
one? ONE?! what is....one?.
should i/who/what panic?

then it slowly floods back
a room
bed
staticus
....numb

but for one second there
i could have been....what?
if something else,
different set of datum had received my focus
would i have still faded into me?

the wallow met

the flow and ebb of apprehension
with dies that bleed into eternity
this is the pattern of life
give, take
want, wait
remember....too late
we are but vessels that empty into the river
that roaring creeklette that passes through in momentary lapses
tossed, then left to beach at odd conjunctions
floundering through the quicksand of concern

when the flow is strongest it channels us to a seeming design
but it can dry up in an instance, no residue of it's wash left to glimpse
but this too is in the diagram
to repeatedly rush forward
and snag on hidden agendas
which surface like leviathans intent on consummation
one moment we resonate with our character
the next there is no reflection to gage
it seems the blind rule in this arena
for those who take the time to muse
will always, always deceive

a cordless destiny

whyever would one sprint towards divinity?
dash ever onwards to the embrace of a probable madness?
were death a habit, stroking the ego
leaving it shaking and stunted
where then are the clues, how does one arrive in that shallow cleft?

oh don't you realize children?
it is but a shriveled wanderlust of perceptions run athirst
a little heeded germ tossed into the winds of time
that rarely encounters humus to root
and then to actually burst into deity?
huh
you might as well expect conscious decision from a stone
but wait....doesn't the mantle itself exhibit compromise?
this fragmented search ever forward
up, out and within
and for what?
fate has no use for the frantic twistings of a phantom cord
lie easy....abandon that quarry....accept

roaring dogma

The hermit shines his chaotic beacon
Lending a path that would be viable even to the soul-blind
Though he himself is visionless to wonder
Having traveled these coincidental routes vanward

One can only awe with innocence you know
and these repetitious viaducts inure one to illusion
but if one barricades against provocation, it negates the deception

those truly chaste, those born a cleansed slate
will inevitably wage grievance through analysis
though decadence and decomp will surely thrill the way to dogma

the blitz of aeons can erode a crown
a crown born with impropriety, too lax to plait
and the dichomotous language of paradox
well, this leaves little room to scratch
the itch, absorbed as truth, lies and prowls....

crooked paths are infinitely more endearing
for round every bend, stupefaction roars
the possibility for scent, fate, and yes wreckage
is inherent at the junction of every gnarled crosshatch
and if the math is done correctly
the multiplicity of delusion is boundless