Wiping The Brow Of Forever

In home after home,

Eviction after eviction,

I have chased the elusive,

Perfection of what,

I am never destined to have,

In dream after dream,

Stacked and recounted,

I have recalled,

Cold words,

Blind actions,

And the throes of people,

Beneath all potential,

Caged in by failed upbringings,

Waiting for death,

To release them,

In tumults too numerous,

I have carried,

My chemicals,

Through fortunate,

Regret and scarring,

And I have this notion,

Of hope,

Which persists still,

If I am breathing deeply,

Enough to hear it,

What does it say,

About what we,

No longer may speak of,

Of what is overgrown,

Green and lush,

Hemmed and intrusive,

In dwellings,

Behind dwellings,

Existing with little retort,

For what it knows is wrong,

Living in the notion,

That confusion is an excuse,

Past adulthood,

And a blank check,

For the petty and selfish,

Blood and cash,

Through separation and ash,

Is what we have come to know,

By two hands blindly groping,

And now weeping,

By what was sewn,

This is what has become,

Of all utopias since,

And all the magnificence,

Briefly lived,

Of this past blessed spring,

Now channeled into darkness,

And thrown upon,

The shore,

Of yet another,

Brave new existence,

The novelty of which,

Wore off long ago.

The Smell Of Home

Will I remember,

The smell of home,

Will I recall those things,

Lost in shame,

Found despite,

Then lost again,

Will there be a pulse,

Left to fathom,

After treachery,

So deep,

Will there be an end,

To the consuming sleep,

Of miles and miles,

And pyres of recollections,

In hope post-infection,

Will there be any peace,

For a maddened soul,

For a medicated heart,

Will there still be a home,

How will it smell,

To be alone again,

In the torn reality,

A blind and childish,

Mind has left,

In its wake,

O' where shall I look,

To redo what was so firmly undone,

Who shall I speak to,

To resurrect,

That taste which has seared,

The most precious of layers,

Of my lips,

And who will believe,

The solemn repentance,

Cold miracles,

That were lost in the mail,

For six weeks apart,

Who will believe that she is,

Anything but deadly,

Words from my lips,

Have lost their value,

Ideas from my heart,

Cradled insecure,

Now wait for some calling,

A memory that must be endured,

Controlled pain,

And patience thin,

I am graciously aware,

Of how I must walk now,

Unfettered by dependence on lips,

Strong in all the pain,

I have collected,

Wise in all the many scars,

I have recorded,

So delicately,

Those scars,

That are strewn about,

My life of sadness,

And its many chapters,

Of loss,

Of shame,

Of abandonment,

In answer to a possession,

I never handpicked,

For myself,

A devil that sat,

For a decade,

Behind cold eyes,

Sinister in its steering,

Of each delicate decision,

Of each broken finger,

Of each mournful cycle,

Of regret,

When mirrors hold monsters,

At various points,

We then know that,

A soul not of its own volition,

Is better left alone,

In this life,

For only that soul,

Can ever understand,

The nature of itself.

There Is Always The End

I am grateful for the end,

For mortality,

For all things that cannot persist,

Forever,

In the insanity,

Of seamless,

And seemingly endless,

Moonlit nights,

We can grow so old,

And so tired,

Of ourselves,

In self-fashioned wombs,

Stern cocoons,

We fester and wait,

Until we pass the truth,

Emerging too late,

Until we forget,

The moment of how,

Things came to be,

And all reasons why,

The blocks are arranged,

As they are,

And lose sight of why,

We need to feel the way we did,

In moments of promises,

Spit trough gnashed teeth,

And thus it is good,

That all things must end,

All breaths,

All sentiments,

All memories,

All sin.

Let Me Sleep

I have a general disgust,

Locked deep within,

And kept wholly secret,

Again,

Though with the will,

To wrestle it down,

On command,

I can see no progress,

Any longer,

I can see no further,

Than a year,

Even in the stillest,

Of mornings,

There can be no desire,

As I am not challenged,

In an excruciating,

Holding pattern,

Waiting for life,

Waiting for freedom,

Waiting for all things,

I have been locked away from,

For so long,

All is indicating,

That it is now a matter,

Of necessity,

A challenge of will,

A test of patience,

As each passing day's,

First moments,

Dig infected nails,

Into the now,

Sharpened claws,

And superlatives,

Waiting in a sluggish,

Lazy way,

Sapped into brokenness,

Please,

Let me sleep,

Until the bird,

Carries me,

To the familiar,

Places I miss.

Subsequences And Consequences

Bails of nomenclature,

And excesses,

Realities and actualities,

Cold as leftover turkey,

Yet,

In a natural state,

It has uses,

But a demon,

Once synthesized,

With acetone,

Passes with whispers,

Into a blisteringly,

Beautiful chaos,

And those who hold it,

Are sketchy as hell,

And so I wonder,

If the chemicals,

Have siphoned out,

My soul,

Over years,

Via wonderment,

And tracers,

And realizations,

Countless and unrecorded,

Limitless and forgotten,

Are those inhibitors,

Of principle,

Into the past,

Go those unstable methods,

Into the past,

Go the hellish notions,

Into the past,

Go the those who breed weakness,

And the even handed fears,

Of your illogical,

Verbal poison,

Mean nothing,

As we throw you,

Into that old toy box,

With the rest,

Of my mildewed,

Memories,

To prevent any chance,

Of any dance,

That would be regressive.

To Preserve And Protect

Anger is naught,

But a natural emotion,

Active or passive,

Depending on discharge,

And of course,

The direction it flows,

That all sentiments,

Have a lifespan,

No greater than four minutes,

Is frankly untrue,

Memories of the noose,

Feelings that compensated,

In grim citations,

Of past actions,

Things I have broken,

Words I have spoken,

Bones cracked,

And karma stacked,

In the glare of a sad,

Noon sun,

It is time to forgive,

Each bleeding fist,

Thrown to unforgiving walls,

Stinging with each moment,

Spent in recall,

Anger in the moment,

Soon released,

So quietly,

So pristine,

Completely confessed,

Purged and rusty,

Crooked eyes and scars,

And all,

Else that I,

Have earned.

In The Quiet Times

In the quiet times,

Remembering things broken,

And having dreams that will never be true,

There is no clarity of thought,

Only clarity of intention,

To capture a thought,

And realize it as pristine,

Kills the thought,

Like an insect pinned down,

With a needle,

On a styrofoam block,

In swollen boredom,

In numbing tranquility,

I have learned to loathe,

The dreams that will not be,

The greens and golds,

That were left fading,

In her denial,

Drenched with whatever else,

Was left over,

When these things were stomped,

And beaten from existence,

And there you have it,

What you always wanted,

But could not put your finger on,

That grand fall of what,

Took so long to build,

Driven into the ground,

In a single day,

Sadly and totally,

In a single day.