Bari
Red, Maroon
Swinging, Smoothing, Swaying
Candy For My Ears
Saxophone
Foul mouthed he was,foul mouthed he was called,
A beast with words,an obsession he wards,
South is his tone,without a fear to his baritone,
A grave his tongue digs,for him he'll only sink.
oh lord
how long
shall it take
for
love
to sail her ship
through
this
wall of fire
through
the
truth and lies
until
your
baritone blue eyes
Dressed in white
Was it really right
Glistening sunset
Where lips met
Wine glass sorrow
A gift is tomorrow
Lowered your eyes
Hiding lies
It was not fate
For love to wait
But it was fate
She would be late
Confetti falling
Broken voices stalling
Shattered stairs
Sudden glares
Highest of high
The lowest sigh
White to red
All were dead
Dressed in white
It wasn't right
Dead in war
...But what for
Upon entering Methacton Junior High School as rookie Warrior,
(the sturm un drang sports team mascot)
no doubt this goy he brew
a facade sans being wimpy kid, bookish nerd, and puny dork
who felt wracked with crew
zing the by gone memory lance of nostalgia to return
and return as endless student at
the Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School,
where failing grades drew
my parents to a private discussion within said
(the one room per grade school house) few
till efforts resulted numb hatter attendance proceeded
(via non-stellar academic performance grew
significant when graduating the sixth grade.
No moment of solace experienced, nor integration this hue
man experienced, and the arctic chill recurring every day
on par with notions of bing holed up in an igloo.
An arthritic flesh
Hesitant wipes off deteriorated lens
Every exhale,
Another tragic sulk unto morrow’s pit
Flaunting suicidal fallacies
Off-white flag motions
Signaling mercy under liar’s duress
Muted pride
Cracking dusty knuckles
Penetration’s decrepit vowel
Slipping in between faulty, stamped licenses
Just to belong
Another back-handed waltz
Bordering beggar dialects
Untrue
Towards paradoxical epiphanies
A faceless identity
Converging amongst unwelcomed hymns
Tainting hallelujahs with discolored spit
Worming their decapitated fingertips
With equilibrium massages
Back to a barricaded oasis
Deciphers from a slanderous heretic
Proclamation of syllabic want
As arthritic flesh
Scribbles out expendable nickname
Manipulating good intentions to be sadistically validated
From their rendered nether
Nameless never inscribed a verse to call their own
Struggling to swim
In the rivers they cried
©Drake J. Eszes
Liquid fire in his heart
Hands too soft to play the part
but if that fire turns to ice
the tears will flow not once, but twice
The passion play has found an end
For broken hearts that cannot mend
but if that heart turns in to stone
his fate will be to die alone
He knows not how to heal the hole
The true desire lives in his soul
But when desire has gone away
the worms move in and there they stay
A home that is broken when love leaves
Turns to ashes as it grieves
But when that home can stand no more
It then lives only
To close the door
So he begs the stars not to break
For the life he wants to take
But when his prayers remain unheard
The pain he feels
is only stiired
There is no song that he can hear
There is no fate he has to fear
But if love is not a part of it
Then death will be the heart of it
For he will see she does not know
Of all the things he cannot show
No bruises on his bended knees
Just unseen tears and silent pleas
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