River

As we see our landscapes slowly pass beyond the reeds that line these gradually eroding banks, I hear all the melodies whispering through the many mouths that are born to whisper what beyond the primal abstracts of need can never be sung, though distinguishable sounds illuminate our world with the mysterious wonder of shadows.

This Rotten Sonnet

Behind the veil of love lies a hatred willing to apprehend all that devours the self longing for separation, reluctantly self annihilating, grasping hard and pouncing back again from the shadows like an untamed animal.

Torn between gluttony and starvation, tottering on the ambiguous wires of social protocol, we command the parts expected, carefully motionful and concealing of corruptable truths, tripping on the undulations of indifference beneath our feet, smiling hard and punching low whistled, memorial memories far from the here and now, willingly trapped by the strange protectorates of loss and singing hopeful songs of the impossible.