New fangled stuff.
Blocks of “blah” everywhere.
Warbling people.
Some type of excision.
Depression is a fancy platter to me.
With those little painted on patterns.
Hissing crickets.
All those random splotches got sorted out.
And more groaned forth.
Happiness feels…mangled.
Depression awakens me like breakfast thrown in my face.
Orange juice tells me to start the car for work.
This is old.
Aged men often think that their vision
will survive them with utmost precision.
So they foist on the young
obsolete moral dung
which the young then subject to excision.
'Tis no collusion in the collision
or delusion in the decision
But the effusion of elision
in the intrusion of the incision
Accents the protrusion of provisions
in the suffusion of supervision
By which diffusion of division
in the exclusion of excision --
All goes to show
the profusion of confusion
~ in this here revision!
A CYCLE OF HANDS
THAT HARM
WORDS
THAT CRUSH
SILENCES
THAT BURY
EMPTINESS
THAT'S HEAVY
AND NOW
THESE HANDS
THEY CUT.
WINTER TIME GRIEF…
The long hot summer has disappeared over the horizon,
Yielding to the arrival of the cooling Fall.
Despite their approaching fate---the annual leaves’ excision,
the tower trees proudly stand firm and tall.
The steamy sticky sweaty nights have all gone
giving way to the cool ebony breeze;
horny crickets and frogs no longer sing their eerie mating song;
squirrels organize their cupboards in the hollows of the trees;
and mushrooms grow on the graves of the Fall’s fallen leaves.
In the early evens’ mist, sun of change ushered in the close of day
leaving flickering shadows hovering over time’s footprints.
Birds---angels of the sky, have spread their wings and flown away;
leaving behind empty nests to catch the winter’s coming events.
Strange, how nature’s circadian rhythms bring about change;
but in the winter season of humanity, so much remain the same.
Even in the winter cold, sable blood flows from the rape of justice:
No matter the season, the blind goddess remains a scheming mistress.
Religous idols mar my vision
because all truth needs more excision.
I seize the dawn for my volition,
you melt within your own contrition!
Be sure it fits in tightly, scold
Oh generations old . . . not old
that barter out my time ~ e'er sold,
youth's handicap is listening's mold!
I think~ I can't ~ should place the role
nor booze, nor cigarettes, now tolled!
Don't count on me, for margin's hold
my strength from now on in, is BOLD!
An activism's strength unfolds
the hope of courage seals, enfolds!
Log on to: www.larouchepac.com
For activism's best endeavors.
Silent persistence peeling skin from bone
With undamaged precision
Easing an imperceptible knife into flesh
Exposing a fragile heart
Stripped with naked vulnerability
Surrendering willingly to anaesthetized hands
Craving achingly raw excision
Clouded with hope filled desperation
A lullaby of forged belief
Eyes fixated on the gentle thudding of beating
Echoing from fading warmth between palms
Subconsciously awaiting unavoidable regret
Intensely flaming pain searing through a bruised, empty cavity
Antagonistic fingers familiarly penetrating, ripping apart
A heart eager to love, drenched in gullibility
Opening bleeding wounds along already scarred edges
Leaving torn pieces distraughtly scattered
Bloodied feeling slowly draining
Wisps of past shadowed ghosts
Self-encouraged to plague again
Evaporating out of void eyes
Ravaging reflected destruction
Self condemned through the hands of a mere puppet
Shameful pain piecing brokenness back together
Cradling the fading beauty in shrouds of detestation
Dissipating into silence
Drowning in a symphony of tears
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