Deprecation

A sense of utter loss within,
ignoring the world outside that of the mind,
Wandering in the paths of insanity
Blasting thoughts, and a rising, formless desire
to be lost in the darkness all around,
yet still sensing the borders
that are immersed in a sludge of sin
All goes on within the invisible world
hidden from any earthly eyes.
Unimaginable to all but one,
yet receiving glimpses of similarity
that strike the uniqueness back from reality.
Giving form to words,
images that could never be painted
but are forgotten instantaneously.
The vastness that might only be
the result of a chemical imbalance.
Such that these words become aimless,
mindless wanderings
devoid of any meaning to the universe.
It is but one fools perspective that
the discourse is one of wisdom,
that it is unique
And yet still, the self-importance clings
and the lines of discernment
become inevitably blurred.
The fabric is torn and marred,
trampled under the hooves of cattle
down below, where the dust is pounded
into miniature swirling clouds,
and the grass roots are torn up
to be left flapping helplessly
in the screaming winds of commotion.
There is a lack of conviction
in every word that is spoken
as if the bubble of thoughts
has become disconnected from the machinery
and floated into boundless space.
Once the fuel has flown,
the unworthy tongue sets in,
drawing from the toxic piles of sundry
that lie skewed asunder
destined to be burned,
though they still exist
to create thick curdling smoke
that chokes out any form of life
and causes the filth of hypocrisy
to flow forth in abundance.
Sinking into the mire,
the narrow way shrinks to the eye of a needle
And all hope seems lost.
This is deprecation.

Red Light

An idea in isolation,
surrounded by swirling clouds
of a dark, fathomless mist.
In the center of inky splatters of darkness
is a pulsing, crimson light,
emitting a soft warm glow
from edges so defined
yet unfocused.
And so the lens must turned
adjusted, and cranked,
until the light comes gradually into focus
and the idea becomes manifest
completed, with fangs and slashing claws.
dragging the mind into its depths.

Flown Lightning

The feeling of self-perceived strength,
invincibility that leaves angry shock on the faces
staring with red holes gaping angrily through cloudy glass panes
flapping hands, fingers sliding into the shape of unicorn
to thrust forward.
A turmoil is taking place
the lust for attention, a spotlight
to be acknowledged by strangers as
someone filled with scathing power,
to instill fearful admiration
and flee for a moment from their own enclosed worlds,
boxes of thoughts and worries,
and whirlwinds of paper leaves, scattered asunder
just to see, and to be filled with awe.
Ignoring stark reality,
for which there is now only
a dim awareness.
Still there is a will to possess humanity,
to be known in this way
Yet so often the words fail,
the emotions become entangled like
intestines dragged out by clawing branches
And lightning storms through inside
wishing to be flown, exploding in blinding streaks
of destructive power.

911 Emergency

Paramedics, police, or fire department?
A passing thought, why not just bring all three?

There he is, curled up in a painfully skinny little huddle, blood tinging thin lips, twitching bald forehead, clothed with shredded rags, sobbing while he babbles in a thin piping voice about his traumatic experience just a few minutes over.

The firetruck arrives, along with the paramedics.

For all the world cares, the shivering creature on the curb side in the back of a fast-food drive-thru is a insignificant bug that was toppled over on its back. He takes on an appearance as less than human, no one even asks his name.

He has little in his small world, much like a bug crawling around the ground, dwarfed by towering blades of grass. The bigger bad bugs have fled the scene, leaving behind a pile of junk and empty beer bottles.

A bird flies across the deserted lot, and a car passes down the street, blasting heavy metal for all the world to hear.

Stained

Emotions seeping through my mind like spilled coffee, first steaming and fading to dull, cold dampness.
Leaving blemishes on my thoughts, crumpling some into wrinkled abominations, waiting to be blown away by the dusty wind.
Aftershock, jolted to reality for a moment, then back to seething black pits. Beyond horror, removed from red and gold flames. Frozen as an ancient statue in the autumn mist.

Empathy

The ability to see from another perspective
to truly understand the turmoil,
the happiness
the anger
the madness
the joy
the confusion
the bleeding heart
the enlightened spirit
to truly know the thoughts
to experience them in a way only one can know
to understand.
Of this we have none, and there is only One.
And yet we have empathy, that which we use so rarely
to have but a moment to peer into the world of another
to understand from some similar experience
or even of a universal connected feeling
that cannot be compressed into words.
Oh, that there would more of this be expressed,
that such creatures as we would be more than heads
filled with grey knowledge
that cause us to loose our way.
Until at last we are met with the end,
and our lasting backward glance sees that all was in vain.
Pursuing only those interests that we call our own
ruling our own worlds of self importance
and overflowing with our own sickening goodness.
We must have it all, in our greed and self possessiveness
But we have nothing to give to each other that would reach so far as
Empathy.

Equilibrium

There must be balance
in the life that we now lead
lest there be an imbalance, and all falls into disarray
and we are lost in mindless squalor
to escape from the chatter
of beings that have become mindless abstractions
Conniving to distract
from our inward bound endeavors
and to come yet again,
back into the light from the dark crevices of thoughts deep within.
Without one, the other becomes a void
into which we have fallen
given into that which has engulfed us like a mighty ocean
with no dike to hold back the crashing breakers.
For there must be the dry land,
that rests on heaving, living water
The tunnels left open for the rushing sensation to flow as free as the open sky
while at times, there is the dank murkiness of desolation.
And then too, there is empathy,
that cannot be sought, but is found in one place that is closest
To bring equal weight to the practicalities
solutions to every problem
And so, without these, hope there is none,
For the walls have been broken.

Dubliners

"He knew that he would regret in the morning but at present he was glad of the rest, glad of the dark stupor that would cover up his folly. He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head between his hands, counting the beats of his temples. The cabin door opened and he saw the Hungarian standing in a shaft of grey light: "Daybreak, gentlemen!" " - James Joyce "After the Race"

"He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding in his ears. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. He halted under a tree and allowed the the rhythm to die away. He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone." - James Joyce "A Painful Case"


"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the soul falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, the decent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead." - James Joyce "The Dead"

The Day It All Just Blew Away

I was there when it happened
when we were promised an education,
The day the draft was passed
and we went to another country
to wage war, and bring order to lands unknown
only to find that
the days of Julius Caesar were over.
Bloodshed was the result,
And the fruits of our labor came to no reward
It was the day that everyone relied on the center
Without a thought that the center might fall
When everyone received health care and there were no jobs
and poor became indistinguishable from the rich.
Nothing of value of remained
the people stopped caring
Only trying to find something
to fill the empty pockets of their hearts
growing colder as the days flew away on cold winds
Investing only in their own demise
Knowing, but not willing to see the destruction being waged.
Looking at the staircase of life ahead of them
And being content to stay on the step in the middle
Unable to find a goal in life
And never finding the right one
Playing games of chess, where all the pieces were pawns
and replacing them with fake queens
With the kings of value set to the side
and forgotten until they are shot to pieces
Branches being choked and possessed
bearing only rotten fruit
which poisons the whole vine
so that wounds are opened
whilst bullets fly and death reigns
The unchecked madness of demons
have let slip the dogs of war
So that the sea is stained red
heaving around a bloodless, thirsty world
In which any type of curve
would give reason for lusty laughter
With no thought for lips turning blue
And unraveling threads burning steadily to their ends
Where life became of no value after the loss
And consciousness became a joke.
In which nature continued its rebellion
and painfully continued to wait
for the pinnacle to become finished
While the rest of the world burned
Feverishly scoffing at naivety
And ever ignoring the loss of hope.
That was the day it all just blew away
and we were as empty vessels.

A Story of Shadows

There had always been something strange about the woman. At the best of times, she was quiet and reserved, never saying more than a few words to anyone, and rarely leaving the house. She always wore a simple white dress, and kept to the shadows, keeping light in the house to a minimum. She lived alone with her father, who never paid much attention to her, but spent the majority of his time working furiously in front of the computer, barely sleeping, and turning in to bed late at night, when everything had faded to darkness, and the only light in the house was that of the glowing computer screen. He never did notice much, least of all, the changes that were beginning to take place in his daughter. Her already sallow complexion began to fade along with everything else, so that it began to take on a pallor similar to that of wax. Her eyes gradually sunk deeper into their sockets, and the shadows of her face became darker. Years went by, and still, the man worked, ate frugally, and slept away the hours of the morning, the only light in his life coming from the dull glow of the monitor. From the shadows, the ashen face watched him, unnoticed as time slipped away like the sibilant slithering of a snake.

Then, one night, it happened. The man had finished his labor for that day and fallen into a deep sleep, as was evident from his wheezing breaths. All was quiet in the house, except for the occasional bewildered chirp from a cricket that had found itself trapped in a maze of venting pipes that ran all though the house. Suddenly, a ghostly figure appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, and there was a spark of red from the shadows of the eyes. For many moments, the specter lingered, staring at the man's sleeping form. Then, with nothing more than a breath of air, it disappeared. Far away, a clock tolled midnight. The specter had reappeared, now further into the bedroom, her features softly illuminated by the light from the screen. She glided over until she was staring directly down at the man's resting body, her face wreathed with a halo of jet black hair. Her white hand reached out and touched his face gently, and once again, a glint of red flashed forth from her sunken eyes. The darkness in the room suddenly grew blacker, and a chill ran through the air. The cricket was silenced in mid-chirp, the wheezing breath cut out, and a deathly silence reigned. She now stood outside the room, clothed in the purest of white, and yet somehow still clothed in shadows. Her hand reached slowly for the wall. With a click, the light can forth, streaming down from the dusty light bulb in the hall, illuminating all that had been lost in darkness for so long. The woman stood motionless, her hand held to cover her face while the other hand still rested on the wall, a white figure burned into the recesses of my memory.