Is there redemption to be found in suffering?
Is there nobility in enduring incessant pain?
Can darkened eyes see blue skies through constant rain?
Are we not mortals set in our ways?
Do we not dread the end of days?
Do we not work our fingers to the bone
And apply for loans with interest to be repaid?
In the totality of our lives as the ninety nine percent, are we not slaves?
Do we not have dreams that are unseen?
Do we not weep for ourselves in the four walls we dwell?
Are babies not born into a polluted world of living hell?
Do we not live on the edge risking our lives to feel alive?
Do we not indulge in vices to escape our own minds?
Do we not self medicate because conventional therapy offers no escape?
Have we not prayed and prayed to see nothing change?
Do we not try to hide our pain from the eyes of our children?
Is there a magical pill to a new beginning?
Are we condemned to a fiery lake for our constant sinning?
Do we not hold back tears when in the company of our unknowing peers?
Have we not battled and battled the torment of irrational fears?
When it is late and we remain awake, do we not contemplate our fate?
Do we sometimes not break from the heaviness of the weight?
Do we not constantly mentally write and rewrite our own eulogies?
In each other do we not find beauty?
Do we not remember first kisses in the sunshine of the summertime?
When I see her, do I not see an angel in my mind?
Through the storm will I fall in the field or will I survive?
Does the vengeance in my blood manifest in my son’s eyes?
In our listlessness do we still look to the skies?
In my plight am I misunderstood?
Do I hold back my love or give one hundred percent as I should?
In the loves I have lost, would I change the outcome if I could?
If I had the power would I resurrect my mother?
Do my weaknesses reflect the genetics of my father?
In my pursuance of success, should I even bother?
Is the world rife with decadence and are the years becoming stranger?
Have I become a recluse with unjustified anger?
From the beautiful sentiments I relayed, does she not remember?
In the affects of my childhood do I continue to suffer?
If it doesn’t kill you does it really make you stronger?
Can the moments of peace be made to last longer?
Can two or three small yellow pills cure chronic insomnia?
What qualities in particular make a good lover?
Did the chicken come before the egg, or is it the other?
Should I have stayed, or should I have left her?
Am I both a victim and a survivor?
Do I protect the appearance of vulnerability with a gruff exterior?
Do I approach the advent of adversity in a rational manner?
Are people with cogent minds better orators?
Is marriage better than being a perpetual lover?
Was it the allure of the exterior, or did I really love her?
Did I say something regrettable in my anger?
Are the questions pertinent? . . . I wonder.
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In a nutshell his life was a constant hell.
Reread carefully, if you have somehow
Missed the purgatory of his story.
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And now that the hour is upon us, let us love each other once more
With the purest of hearts and the sincerest of kisses.
In the blinking of an eye, let us rekindle what we thought we had lost
And recapture the letters of love and all the misses.
We had lost each other in the wind, but now in these precious moments
We begin again and find the sacred intimacy of our origin.
In the calm before the storm, let us hold each other once more
And find our secret place of warmth on the wings of the archangels,
Touching all the worlds and guiding us through the light of heaven’s door.
I will love you and cherish you my angel, now and forevermore. -
The autopsy of a broken dream is started with the collection of the scattered pieces. The scene of the final tragedy must be reconstructed and seen through the eyes of the afflicted. The genesis of malady must be traced back and seen clearly; see the hope of the heart and its failed audacity. Glare upon pain in its rawest form, and with astuteness write down your observation. The thoughts of the oppressed must be dissected with precision. To properly conduct the procedure, the dream must be placed in a sterile environment completely void of contaminants. Notice the scarring of the organs denoting internal turmoil. They must be weighed as studious attention is paid. Record the various weights, and make general observations of its final state. It was beautiful in its formation but short in its realization. If you have to, step away briefly and ponder the beauty of what could have been, and then start again. The dream did not have any friends, so at the ceremony you will be the only person to attend. Make sure it is treated with dignity as it appears to sleep peacefully. Remember your duty and maintain professional reputability. At your own discretion, try to visualize what it couldn’t see, and in your memory remember what it wanted to be.
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Incessant sorrow overtakes
With quiet tears the tormented contemplates
What on the other side awaits -
Empty shells stumble around in darkness
Searching for the substance of their former selves.
The hollowness of their souls ring out in endless echoes.
Like fallen leaves in autumn they go whither the wind blows.
As time passes they become walking carcasses
Who see and speak, and listlessly weep.
Under the openness of the ether, the feral children curiously peep.Lethargically they walk
and recite their mantra:We search for the light of resurrection in all directions
Hoping for our day of release and the stillness of peace.
We dwell in darkness and are tormented with emptiness.
The residue of substance is not enough to sustain us;
The hunger of our craving is not of the stomach, but of the soul.
Once young and beautiful faces are now withered and old.
With high hopes and sincere hearts we march, yet we fall apart.
The fulfillment of their purpose they constantly dream;
To be filled with healing waters of a peaceful stream.
Still, they roam;
Weather beaten ships on eternal seas without a home.
I will record their misery and write a poem
In hopes they find that sustaining substance that fills the soul.
In the millions they gather with stories untold;
Inside they seek warmth, for on the outside it’s cold. -
After the mask is partially removed I await the final unveil.
In your nature you are beautiful and your essence I inhale.
I accept you with unconditional love so don’t be afraid.
You have been deeply hurt before so you hesitate;
Day by day you see the intentions of my heart and slow is the pace.
I am patient in my spirit, for it is not a race.
Now with gratitude and tears of joy, I finally see your face;
We weep together and our bond is made stronger;
I would have waited until the end of time,
With elation of the heart knowing that you are mine.
I look at you and see a goddess with blue diamonds in her eyes.
Endless waterfalls are your hair, and the heavens are your smile.
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After the last weeping, when the spirit is no more,
And the cup of emotion has been poured out of the soul
As precious blood pools on the floor,
With ghostly eyes transfixed in dim light she sits,
Waiting for the darkness, listlessly rocking back and forth. -
In purgatory we are suspended.
Anguished screams are the byproduct
When the spirit is wilted.
Epitaphs are written and rewritten
With each changing season.
The anxious and depressed are listless;
There is no room for anything else.
Constant torment of the soul causes scarring.
She is beautiful on the outside,
But on in the inside she’s dying.
When the dead are gone they leave behind the living,
But the living are not living.
In the darkness cries are heard,
And the stark truth of finality is contemplated.
Day after day agony is compounded,
And there is no room to breathe;
We flood ourselves in the tears of heavy weeping,
But there is no reprieve.
With laborious breaths we make an existence;
The delicate shell of us craving a life of substance.
Once filled with life, we drag the carcass
Of yesteryear behind us, hoping for a resurrection,
Or some type of rejuvenation to bring life back into our eyes.
The preacher preaches a fiery sermon
And tells us to look to the skies,
But we have prayed and prayed again, and we are tired.
The world turns its face from the frightful imagery of our reality;
We are mannequins they dress up and pretend not to see;
Still, we are flowers in winter
Waiting for spring to bloom in all our glory.
In giant books of gold bound with the blood of our pain,
The gods, they record our lives, and write our story. -
The residue of you lingers.
I am infused with passionate thoughts;
I must purge myself, but sensuality taunts.
I taste of you, and your flavor is euphoric.
To let go I must convince my heart.
The strong potency of memories
Must be diluted with current reality
Lest there be an overload in sensory.
The recipe:
1 part memory to 7 parts reality.It must be savored and consumed slowly,
For the sweetness can mask its cogency;
Still I am inebriated from overconsumption,
As I secretly indulge with endless craving,
Like some starving predacious being.
Unknowingly I am in your rapture;
Sensuous and loving thoughts haunt me sweetly.
On a clear night I dreamt of the story of Adonis and Aphrodite.
The fire left center of my chest refuses to be quenched;
From past memories I piece together my own collage of what’s left.
On amatory nights with dim lights against my neck I feel your breath.
Intimate Compositions 