855 AD

when the steaks are so great

and the forest so far away

and the trees keep falling

and falling

and falling

like first snow

who decides

if sodomy of a man or woman

or child

in their own home

in the stars

in the ghetto

is good or bad

who decides

crime or punishment

and as an addendum

I must ask

if they look like you or me

wear the same clothes

drive the same cars

share physical features

emotional moments

laughs and family structures

are we now the same people

all guilty, all in it for the long haul

a few hundred here, a few thousand there

what if nobody cares?

and what does one do

when attacked by someone

with no filters, no conscience, and no soul

do we pray for their freedom?

do we search our deeds for clues?

do we die sad and hopeless?

do we kill them first?

and assume survival

will do?

maybe if we add time

and comfort

it will all be forgotten

it will all become okay

the soul will reemerge

as if from a bad dream

or you know, we're dead

worm food now

who cares?

hacking at solid ground

when the canopy of stars
has been made
sandalwood turned to sky
all lights have dimmed and blazed
just right, just then
my hands still reach somedays
feel ready and justified to claw at
more than I can reach
more time, more bevel
if today I could have the power
to stretch forth two hands
and reach somewhere
change someone
hold on to something
then everything will be all right

sanyasa

  

they arent the sands of time

or the ides of march

I think they are the tides of time

I have, a few stones saved

as the tide swells 

into a thousand years of memory

between the years

I have endless despair

as I fail my parents

my loves

and my children

but now, right now, im busy

failing me

the music swells

and a few hands

guide me into the bright light

I turn around, and theres even a few

for my sins

pulling me back

not many I remember

from the last hundred years

beside me flowing

are so many children

how many children

is too many?

peatalok

 

this here are the elvenar

you cannot trust their words

but their hands are true

that there are the ashadar

you cannot trust their words

nor their hands

but their ears are true

clockwork

 

put courage to paper

and song to voice

these sounds outside

they are blips and beeps and constant 

consolation, contradiction, confusion, command

they are made by the damned

a step outside maslows graveyard

how many condemned

do we own?

must we own?

can we own?

who here rations the divide

between the lines and beyond the pale

can it be hells waiting room 

and not the wall

who here is tracking for their own doom

convinced, and utterly convincing

they are the damned