I’m tired.
Without carrying a weight,
I’m tired.
Breath comes easy,
But do you see
How I’ve become so tired?
My heart beats slowly,
It’s my weary mind come lowly,
That has made me feel so tired.
My thoughts all but expired,
This enervation that I’ve sired.
My momentum has decayed,
I’ve beared this burden for days,
And this has made me tired.
For renewal I seek sleep.
That repose I will keep,
Until I awake to find,
That I’m still very tired.
I had a dream that Rylie died,
I did not cry,
Inside I died.
Her close friend she trusted her life,
He took that life.
There was a knife.
I had a dream that Rylie died.
On the night that Rylie died,
He sold her life,
For such a price.
She and he, the devil and I,
I did prevail, I did not try.
Eye for an eye,
I was left blind.
On the night that Rylie died.
Such sorrow that dwells here unknown,
Terrors in her mind that grow.
Void calls out to void,
Speaking to her with such ploy.
Asking where, asking why,
In vain she asks, in vain she tries.
An unanswering void does claim,
Thoughts and dreams, all the same.
Ephemeral respite from terror being,
Her dark sorrow and fearful dreaming.
Sitting on a cloud that billows out becoming fog,
She waits for the approaching doom.
Sits and waits. But not for long.
Looking into anothers eyes
What is there for me to spy?
A window to the soul unclear,
Stained glass and clouded tears.
What then lies beneath? Who knows?
Something from the darkness shows,
And I’m a light at the end of a path.
Clearing the way for something that can’t?
Two steps forward and one step back.
What matters is the one that lasts.
The lights are slowly lowered,
And now approaches night.
Our days on earth are numbered,
Before our final flight.
We surrender to the dreaming,
The place ones mind finds rest,
And so many of us take to scheming,
Foggy judgment saying we know best.
In times like these I’m tempted to wonder,
But I don’t have to wonder because I know.
Believing the answer is so much farther,
But reaching out is all we must do.
The calling of the crows
Said you were alone,
I’ll take you back to my home,
Hidden under a stone.
Clear skies or rain,
I’m waiting again.
I’m beyond the end of pain,
Where you’re then taken.
Of you, time might forget.
Of this I seldom wonder:
After that, what’d you expect?
When you are placed there under,
The feet of those who come after.
Once you’re laid with those before,
In the silence of the rafters,
In our house of worms and gore.
They who fly, the ones who see,
Everything above me.
To fly and flutter; waste away.
Skies of blue, skies of grey.
Although wasting, they are not dying,
And in their sorrow they are not crying.
Birds of the sky birds of a feather,
The same and glad, in any weather.
Once upon a lonely road,
I saw a stray and small, lost toad.
He croaked away and called to me so,
That I paused my walk to listen close.
He croaked and I understood his words.
He then said nothing too absurd,
But where I was going, he’d come from that way.
“Only danger there you’ll find today!”
He hopped away then, quickly.
I thought him possibly sickly,
And decided for myself to see,
What danger would there awaiting be.
Why didn’t I listen to the toad passing by?
His warning was free, I didn’t even try.
And just as a child, wondering if the fire burns, extends his hand,
I ignored the warning, and set off into that unknown land.
From some fading light it hides,
Stifling all the while a cry.
Within without the sanity so,
It can never truly let go.
Every minute waiting,
Every moment in its path,
Something essential left for wanting,
Though can’t reach up and make it last.
Every day shorter than the one before.
One might be surprised that dying,
Wasn’t already on the floor.
There in its crying it might say,
“This is just another day.”
And will look forward to the next,
Searching for some way in small to be blessed.
Beasts of Articulation 