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.

If only the eyes

If only the eyes,

Then you 'd miss the thumping chest, beating heart and straining lungs.

If only the eyes,

Then you'd miss the heavy beads of sweat rolling down the face, over chest, then to be lost forever.

If only the eyes,

Then you wouldn't hear the heavy, laboured breathing, spittling into the breeze.

If only the eyes,

Then your target has been met.

If only the eyes,

Had seen you staring back.

If only the eyes.

Fumbled?

It tumbles,

the leaf it slowly falls;

a graceful decent.

Slow swoosh and swing.

It tumbles,

as if the tree had fumbled.

Nature releases,

sometimes letting go.

From quiet extinction, to

violent armageddon.

Nature lets go,

for nature to grow.

Writing the Way, part one.

Countless words for countless times.

In stanza's long or simple lines.

With devices, tempo, scale and structure;

emotions are made and couplets rhyme.

With half a mind,

you'll have all your ears.

Yet it's not always enough to hear.

Words sung sweet can end in tears.

Style can beguile, with meaning lost.

In malevolent intent or careless construction,

we set sail on journeys of destruction.

Sin

Sin seeps, through time and choices.
Dripping it oozes,
Congealing on the turning points of life.

It's the little things, the white lies and half truths,
They drip, drip, drip through the pages of your reality.
Forming a turgid flood that awaits your falter.
A hideous punctuation as a paragraph ends.

It's the big things, the betrayal and deceit,
With their seismic shock that knocks you to the floor.
An eruption of destruction.
Sometimes the story ends.

Yet sin does not exist,
Guilt is not yours and blame can go away.
Your actions, at worst, just distractions,
From the things someone thought you should have done.

Through commission or omission you are you, what the hell did they expect?
Your actions just gave satisfactions to your person clear and true.

You'll disappoint and you'll offend those so called love ones.
Left in tears they chose their reality of you over yours.
Their sin?

In choices, decisions and actions we may have erred.
Mistakes are ten a penny.
We need no gods to tell us this.
Yet liberty is ours to squander,
and we pick those loved ones,
to share the pages of our reality.

Then sin we do, in our liberty and freedom.
Our Godliness is our power to create.
Possibilities and hope exist on the precipice of doom and destruction.
Our sin is to sink into one expecting to swim in the other.