Wasted Energies.

You've done this thing,
like attaching a string,
from my mind to your heart,
from my mouth to your brain;

You've created this thing,
like a hornet's sting,
from my inner-most thought,
comes a painful tingling;

You've become something,
not quite a human being,
from my unhealed parts,
the blood is running again;

You've turned out to sing,
the song of an old enemy,
from the deepest of want,
for the very same things;

You've proven to swing,
back and forth, in between,
from the history you haunt,
o the throne of a King.




The Hand That Counts.

I can still
recognize,
a sweaty face –
with
guilty eyes;
a selfless smile –
that made me
realize,
that the truth
is still a lie.
The March of Time
goes down a rigid line;
the drum that reverberates,
it doesn’t stop on a dime;
the vibration rolls
along tidal waves
through all matter
of time and space;
the skies that hold
the secret fate,
of the self-worshipping
human race –
have been foreseen,
to inevitably
betray;
The Ties that Bind
unravel and unwind,
to be once again tied
to our heavy hearted
changing tides.
Marching in circles
around the confines of
a broken
clock face,
must keep up to an impossible pace –
the hand that takes, the hand that shakes,
the hand that counts the sentiment faked.

Bled.

I will kneel at the feet of the man or the beast,
depending on which one has his teeth sunk into me…
and when the lips peel back upwards,
to bear the double edged,
dripping red, set of razor teeth…
only then, can be determined,
which one I’m currently worshiping.
I can blend myself in with the white or red skin,
belonging to either clan through a split blood relation…
and when the day has ended,
to become the grey-scaled,
chain-mailed, cell of my own prison…
the only way that I’m able to stay,
shine light on what’s mine once again.
I can keep up still, alongside the fin or the gill,
towing my heaviest anchor and its affected blood-trail…
and when the buoy’s been rounded,
to become blinded once again,
the line of vision, breaths get exhaled…
the single-handed curse:
my belovedly bled best friend.

Baited.

Never will you endeavor to mind,

I’ll just be here hanging on the line,

baited breath for the elusive reply,

skin that burns at the turn of your blind eye…

forever and ever spins this glitch in time,

laid out before those very shaded eyes,

a charted route you refuse to recognize,

tongues that sting as they swing and spill lies…

not a moment wasted of your precious time,

no second thought over this burden of mine,

watch me continue, pass right down the line,

no turning back to paint black what I leave behind…

you’ve surely exposed yourself fully this time,

displayed by the drunkenness such greed defines,

so many chances to ignore your beloved dollar sign,

any opportunity to do right by me has at last, passed you by.

 

Shortcomings.

Why must there suddenly be,

so much daunting irony,

out of thin air, magically,

from nowhere, seemingly;

faceted edges glittering,

smell of engine oil burning,

a billion ions shimmering,

anywhere my eyes perceive;

materializes instantaneously,

recollected quite unexpectedly,

jaw-dropping moments of clarity,

from the mirror and back at me;

long-standing silences in between,

questions I’ve posed so desperately,

and answers returned, in-comprehensively,

from Gods that supposedly see everything;

I, too, believe in such a possibility,

of the Gods taking pleasure in our misery,

when every day brings yesterday’s injury,

nobody can say that the Gods smile upon me.

Shortcomings.

Why must there suddenly be,

so much daunting irony,

out of thin air, magically,

from nowhere, seemingly;

faceted edges glittering,

smell of engine oil burning,

a billion ions shimmering,

anywhere my eyes perceive;

materializes instantaneously,

recollected quite unexpectedly,

jaw-dropping moments of clarity,

from the mirror and back at me;

long-standing silences in between,

questions I’ve posed so desperately,

and answers returned, in-comprehensively,

from Gods that supposedly see everything;

I, too, believe in such a possibility,

of the Gods taking pleasure in our misery,

when every day brings yesterday’s injury,

nobody can say that the Gods smile upon me.

Ten-Fold.

In the epic days,
and valiant ways,
of old;
were things like dignity,
and empathy,
I’m told;
there was humanity,
and human beings,
ten-fold;
was concern for,
so much more,
than gold;
was no need for,
any nuclear Holy War,
just growth;
then came humanity,
lacking all sincerity,
a joke;
tailed by the hungry beast,
swallowing good and evil things,
we know;
but we didn’t see,
what was happening,
behold;
in the world today,
perversely incensed ways,
unfold;
pedals fall away eventually,
a desperate act of dying beauty,
let go.