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Glow Of Freedom
The city glitters in its darkness.
We talk through sprawling arguments
of the diversity of choices
offered to the masses on this strip.
Glowing signs of charged vapor shimmer,
casting our shadows over past decisions.
Twisted options of glass sell desires
all with a price to pay.
All except, the glow of freedom,
above the mission.
Under The Sun
Heat rises and condenses,
like the breath of exhausted angels,
shrouding the city from the sun.
No relief will await them.
The fallen hope for one more night
of deeds done for the darkness;
knowing the sun has risen before,
and will come again.
Crescent Moon Rising
A crescent moon is rising.
Dimness in a dark world.
The sun still shines,
but the moon beckons
violence from the east,
and many do follow.
The sun illuminates the rising moon,
as the earth stands between,
a prize to be won by the masses;
casting the shadow of religion.
The moon will rise, only to fall,
in the end.
Walking On The Shoulder
Push the petal down
but theirs no momentum
just gravel and spinnin’.
Hang on to the wheel,
the powers-that-be need chauffeurs
to their final destination.
Stalled at the intersection
of faith and reason,
travelers sign colorful language,
as natives pierce you with adjectives.
Walking on the shoulder of this life,
you’re gunna get to a higher street.
The asphalt will give way to gold
sooner than you think.
A Voice That Calls Me
I turned towards the north,
and breathed the bitter wind,
somehow feeling its warmth inside.
I stand in the masses of metropolis
one man breathing words of silence
looking towards a different moon.
In the longest night
I hear a voice that calls me.
A whisper of warmth in the chill.
It’s love’s name I’ll call, in the end.
The Chill Has Come Again
Winter has come again.
The chill of divine breath
on my skin.
Breathing the bitterness
of icy relationships
the sore thought in my throat
chokes my memories
into sporadic verbs
of what I could never do,
even in a warmer season.
Casting A Chance
Kneeling before the tree in greed,
I cast a lot on the stained ground
hoping to hold on to so much more.
For luck I throw the cubes,
fulfilling my destiny.
Hope is captured in a box
and limited to a number,
as I fail to look up at the one,
who gave me a chance.
Slow Train Coming
Walking the tracks in the city,
as if I knew which side I was from.
Double lines make us equal,
held together by precious ties.
Americans hide the rail behind life;
walls echo the historic whistle of freedom
as if it were something we’re ashamed of.
Off in the distance,
the howl approaches ever so slowly,
as some worship at the stations,
and others mock the arrival,
of a slow train a coming.
Shifting Pattern
Stains on the stain glass.
Blues and pinks
cast subtle hues of acceptance
across the floor to the alter.
Shadows turn with the times
making pages confusing to read.
Darkened understanding loves the shade
in the windows of their souls,
as pattern shifts, on the ground.
Inside
Rooms full of clutter
cast confusing shadows.
Light exists in the center
and flickers with my breath,
making dimness dance,
advance and recede
across the ceiling.
Living with the light
and the darkness,
many do not see the pattern
that the conflict casts upon the walls,
as I look out the windows, of my eyes.
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Postmodern Spin
The center shifts,
in the vortex of questions
and answers we give.
Whirling cyclone of meaning
rips a random path into the future,
as narcissistic dreams cloud our vision,
shifting our attention ‘round the circle.
Spiraling down to the moment
when emotion fails to respond.
We ask, and can’t comprehend,
the spin.
Spirit-Wind
Chasing after the Spirit-wind,
not knowing where it’s from
or where it’s going;
a moment to stop and breathe.
Inhale strength and power,
exhale intention and action,
feeling the invisible slip
through my grasp.
Here for a moment.
Caught up in the effortless.
One day, joining the breeze.
Ashes From Flames
The flame flickers
in the winds of change.
Youth looks forward
age looks back,
and wonders if the young glow
should even be kindled at all.
The light in her eyes
sparks moments of memories
when I thought I needed the flames.
Now smoldering cinders
color my past in shades of grey,
as I look back, at mournful ashes.
Domain
The path some walk is a shadow-land,
and though figures seem distant
beyond the windows of our eyes,
we all walk this path alone.
Inside our compact cranium
is a vast network of corridors;
rooms of memories and mayhem,
nooks and cubbies of comfort,
that, if we were to spend an hour
we could get lost for years.
Is reality really on the outside?
Or is it interactive across a domain,
just as real?
Flash Back
Yesterdays meld into the morrow.
Between memories of love and violence
hides her kiss.
Flash back frozen and smushed together,
tangled in attraction.
The space of warmth between grows cold
as I search for her in another’s eyes,
if only to stop the seconds,
and spin back, to that moment.
Liberty In The Twilight
Flickering flame,
the greenish glow of her dress
makes an eerie reflection
in the troubled waters.
The masses in her shadow
are worried about the price of greed,
and the weathered gown she has always
clothed herself with.
She breaths a hollow sigh
and wonders why she holds
the light so high.
As twilight approaches,
over this nation.
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