Dreams in Blowing Sand
Whilst living as a pragmatic loser,
searcher for the holy grail in bars
walking the beaches finding dimes
losing my patience with patrol cops
sleeping under rowboats on the sand
buy a mug with tarnished, sandy coins
fighting gulls over discarded hotdogs
great ships sailing out of the harbor,
meeting people from so very far away,
I lie in the sand at night and wonder
what it would be like, but for now I’m
living lost upon leftovers of yesterday.
Run your fingers
through the depth of my soul.
be strong, like a sprig of oak
swaying in the wind of a tempest.
For once, just once, I beg of you,
feel exactly what I feel,
believe as I, of what is truth,
perceive, what your eyes see,
for I perceive what is before you.
Taste the long tracks of tears
examine and for once, just once,
understand what life screams into
your mind, emblazons in your eyes,
whispers softly to your beating heart.
Just imagine, as it may be all that’s left.
Crisp as a crypt on a cold March day
sleek and sharp like a stiletto’s blade
ignore the piercing screaming shrill
lurking deep in the soulless shadows,
but how do you run away from that?
Drifting on with a sanctimonious grin
now comes a savior rich of cold piety,
waltz through the garden of Decrepitude.
Tasting dreams of all the spoiled children
of a chilled shaded wispy see-through pallor.
The raw stench of earthy putrefied essence
a frosty breathless whisper is now heard
as resurrection lilies stand tall in defiance
tears flowing within the winters icy winds
my treasured memories are long forgotten.
Into the starry skies of bastion-ed horror
I shall live for a heart with a writ of terror.
Shattered heart of an unfulfilled love
the imperiled song devoid of empathy
blistered iced essence wafts at twilight
dodging streetlamps off Second Street
wipe bloody shoes on the back of pants
patiently wait for a soiled dove parade
Lick the shaft after a slice to the throat.
voices in my head mimic a red vulture
moving upstairs through paper dolls
loving the blade as it devours another
sharp is the edge of an obsidian knife
stalking lilacs throughout the darkness.
Damn how I love this serial existence
swirling songs end with silent screams
a rancid cities dance into sliced echoes
blissful ecstasy during the stalk of a lilac.