no name.
Tame the lame
with eyes to blame
the misfortune that came
by the action of the same.
...
We are of the forest
we are of the creatures wild at heart.
We are of suffering.
Our life's amount to nothing
a drum beats in the distant
from deep within the night
first fright
the unobtainable wild eyes
capturing the horizon
on the early morning
screams out the ancient void
we be misfits
we be alive – and troubled by it
we be songs of war, love, misfortune and misery
that would be our victory…
...
can we outlast the past?
Can we reinvent ourselves, like sprout from aches?
Truth be told
that story is old
as hope turns cold
like stone
…
I long to be
a boring old man
that sleeps all day
because he can
and reads his magazine
without a worry in the world
I think I did this life fair
when all is said and done
drinking wine
and reading Jim Morrison poems
sitting on my porch
next to nature
listening to bird sing
this life amounts to nothing
peace be with you
our suffering is the God in us all
we lost.
…
white knuckels
scars
...
a reminder of the good old days.