The Glorious Past

To the glorious past;
and the myth of half remembered yesterdays.
Where ground you can retread,
but whose prizes have long since gone.

To the glorious past;
where the dead still live.
We greet and not saying goodbye.
Opportunity has not yet passed,
and first impressions can still be made.

To the glorious past;
with blue skies and shining sun.
Of bodies tanned, toned and young.

To the glorious past;
and the moments before the plunge.
With the race not yet won.

Why would I not be in the glorious past?

To the glorious trap;
a labyrinth of chasing shadows.
Where grasping hands only ever clench smoke.
The shot but an echo and the powder gone.

To the glorious trap,
should never have looked back.
Went for comfort and ended lost.

To the glorious past, that glorious trap.

Heat

I hate the heat,
That gnawing, creeping thief.
Movement made a penitent act,
Where muscles moan and thoughts are fucked.
The soul is sapped, or so it seems.
I hate the heat that steals my sleep.

The night is nasty,
In this oven's embrace.
Flesh peeled free from where sin does seep.
Temptation a tease castrated by confines,
Of this damn heat that steals my sleep.

No sleep,
No dream,
Just the endless moonlit,
Boiling tomb.
Cursed by the heat, that steals my sleep.

Start

Broken hands that fumble with the pen,

Whose ink would flow from a broken mind.

Open, broken so such things could spill.

It's a danger,

Knowing too much.

Either you're knowledge to be silenced, or,

A knowing waiting to be set free.

The revolution hinges, not on capacity, but the willing to do. 

To use.

Revolution.