Monthly Archives: January 2016

Mailbox Grave

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A mailbox this grave.
We, the letter sent.
What’s a life to save?
Is it futility hell-bent?
A breath,
Watching life and death.
The unknown,
Waiting for our souls.
But not so unknown when we,
Prepared,
Are sent off to eternity.
As the postman to carry us thereĀ  lowers the flag,
Room is made for the next who’s been tagged.

Writing on the Wall

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All of the dark memories on the wall
Tell of a story long past, she cannot.
She has seen the pieces and watched them fall,
She’s jealous of those able, who forgot.
Want for tokens unwanted, expired.
Seeking ways to leave the past to the past,
This mausoleum she would retire,
Were these memories from her mind not cast.
She sees the hand, on the wall is writing,
Taken as inevitable and bad.
With these thoughts she is constantly fighting,
She lost. Her life eternal isn’t sad.
Were I to disagree, some would concur,
Though who’s to say the writing was for her?

Afraid to Say

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These hands that hold my mouth closed, force my words
Back into a void cave, wishing release.
My silence grows, like so many caged birds,
In this well of censors I can’t appease.
Truly, I’m not powerless to resist,
Yet fear, my nemesis, paralyzer.
Fearing not change, but the resulting list
Of failure, by she, the analyzer.
I must stand and resist her, fear of change.
The fear of what I am meaning to say.
I will succeed though the fear still remains.
Therein it will drive my courage today.
I look back on the battle for my soul,
I, with clear eyes see, the hands were my own.

Borrowed Time

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The moments we have are not our own,
Borrowed time and borrowed home.
What time we have we spend and we,
Commit too much and become debtors. He
Lends only a fixed amount,
A sum so high that we can’t count.
That is a number we’ll never know.
Spending each minute as if our last so,
Once our last is spent it’s no suprise,
If lived as such the rest of our lives.

Days Debt

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A forgotten day found
At its end.
A silent and empty sound,
In my head.
This something followed me home.
So far.
What it was, lost in the loam,
Now marred.
Beneath the earth now buried,
Remembered.
I miss how I was carried
Through December.
With winter at its end,
And springs birth,
There is a maddness to which I tend,
Not of this earth.
My follower I’ve discovered,
This shadow.
By the light its been governed
And fallow,
This tired soul waits.
For tomorrow.
Now my sleep baits
Are low.
This is how my fatigue collects debt.
One payment will be missed I fret.

To Live and Die in Bliss

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What’s the point to all of this?
To live to love and live in bliss?
Or is it something far away,
What we can’t understand today.
In hunting for this mystery,
All around, what I see,
This thing called life it is fleeting.
At its end, others might be grieving,
But in between the here and there,
Here is a thought to spare,
Why not love in all of this?
So we may live and die in bliss.

Prodigal Daughter

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A cold morning soon gone,
Another path she won’t belong.
Everything she’s said and done,
Remembered by another one.
It’s too heavy. She can’t carry this alone.
When in truth she isn’t, they wait for her at home.
But the lie that she’s conceived,
Would say none would be pleased.
In truth again: they would forgive.
They just hate to see her gone,
And in darkness live.
Waiting for her every day with open arms,
Hoping she’ll return to them, safe from harm.