Magazine Posts

Whence came the wild look in your eyes?
What spark is it which makes you wise?
Where do we go from here? This place
Is not for us, unlike others, it's about face.

The loose change, in my pocket,
money to spare.
Is more like my one feeling;
one of despair.
No more control. A glass
with no wine.
What does one do, when
having this doubt?
Run away and hide, or
jump and shout?

There are very few pleasures, which come with age,
so losing something of enjoyment now
is taxing the old man's tired mind,
who enjoys his friends and a glass of wine.
Please excuse me now, for I'll move on,
trying not to complain but Dear Lord,
please lose the freezing and take us back to rain.

Change the words upon the plate,
for many may be hard to abrogate,
mean they naught, to you and I,
as they gallop across the sky.
What to do? Where do you go,
confused by hate? I don't know.

When your Soul falls from grace,
slow down and change your pace.
Change the rhythm, change the beat.
Try hard to win and avoid defeat.

Strangers we are once again.
You were my closest friend.
All the socializing of the past,
disappeared. My was it fast.

Across this land of broken dreams.
Across this land of abject sorrow,
Comes now a better day,
A more beautiful day on the morrow.

I won't write.
I won't complain,
when there is no taste
to an acid rain,
which falls from clouds,
while we must remain
in this saddest World,
with tears, which stain
our cheeks; coursing down,
on a loved ones pain.

A path between good and evil,
winds through the conscious mind.
A direction, taken in error
may be a detriment to mankind.
What evil lies, in the hearts of men,
who care not about the lives they see,
resulting in a lack of common decency?

The lost moon,
a void horizon.
An empty sky;
Where's the brightness
to catch my eye?
Come back now.
Return to me,
for in the darkness,
I cannot see.

I heard the Owl,
who saw the Crow,
on the Azalea
playing in the snow.

Someone said, "The eyes are the window
into the Soul.
This thought comes from a place,
like any other.
A mystery this one, plain
but not forgiven.
Why now? You ask of me
for these words are soon forgotten,
while I await the coming dawn.
If only it were certain.
These words make no sense,
for they will be gone tomorrow,
as all the yesterday's gather
into the memories of happiness
and sorrow. Go from here.
Leave me be. Don't play games,
with those I love, for I know you
better than all who will follow.