on the mountain

There was a time when I was unrighteous,

I think I liked it better then.

—

—

As the knife drew blood from the Ram

The mans’ eyes were tired and worn

His legs were heavy and his face was lorn

With many nations his heart was heavy

His son watched naked and afraid

As the blade cut and opened

Thoughts were mysteries to both

They were alien from each other

The past was gone and the future was not.

Only the present moments on that mountain were felt

The animal, noisy as it was, died quickly

And the two were alone again

With each other

Lit from above

And the wind wouldn’t stop till home

But before they went down

The man called his son once more to him

And as he looked into his sons deep eyes

And as he felt a hint of shame

He gave his son his own coat and the knife

And his son buried it where they stood.

with-roughly

Rumination ruined me

And Nietzsche

(But resentment of resentment

Ruined only him)

The Earth, as I, was once a perfect sphere

Then life broke out there and here

Good and evil came and went

Ideas rose and life was rent

Possessions held up too high

Posies ringed in pockets die

Out of doubt and into death

Those that sleep alive are breath

In self possessed hording life

The snort of herding strife.

The limbic system of Jesus failed

His timber held him but no one hailed

From anywhere but cut his nails

Alone in bathrooms go the snails

till images of horses tails

torn and tattered blood entrails

scatter our minds and drive us mad

Alone in wells our resentment, sad

but true, overflows our hearts

and builds us up and down

with-roughly a moments start

a single thorny crown

FLume

Sitting, looking, waiting

He and I both instigating

The horrors of our youth

Now fallen precipitating

In oblivion shallows

Mirrored in our minds marrows

Touching on whims and arrows

Broken now, eyes narrow

And melt with thoughts

Remembrances of spots

Which dot the past

both he and I enlisted since

the meaningless life is crass.

…

A hot tea and a clean book

…

Breaching subtle plans

in pain our minds are left to rest

on eyes that once were thought to shine

on a voice that once was heard to sing

on lips that once prayed on mine

on steps that drive down through flesh

on hands my lost inheritance.

…

…lEarnlEarnlEarnlEarn…reaDreaDreaDreaDreaD…

…

What more could bring such sorrow

As a life with purpose saved for tomorrow?

I wish I understood such beauty,

as passion withheld for the sake of duty.

Both he and I now since departed

From our other and left un-hearted,

I Indwell the prison started by my hands

That failure could not stand,

As he retains the dreams once charted

On his map of memories parted

But held by steal, in still dull shadows.

…

A meeting and a smile

…

Life is a horror built by men

who can’t escape the past within.

For both he and I

One held, one free

Believe we missed our chance to be

Unhinged unshackled from ourselves,

The Keep, from which is no escape.

Our dreams are heaped in ashes

All that’s left are fragile glances

From women taking pictures

In parks and buildings

Enshrined in white

Held too tight

in lace and satin

and tears tonight

will fall on men who have no show

nor sign of sorrow.

For those of us held back

and walk alone, a tedious argument,

through streets.

A cup of tea prevailing

subtle tears availing

pretense flailing

borrowed words enshrining

those beasts in water lurking

En-laurelled in beauty smirking,

While our lives in sand

Give no place to stand

…

And there is talk of Sartre

…

One gone to land

to give a hand

he is but a man

…

And there is talk of Dostoevsky

…

the other man stays

to stare out his days

Upon the waves

…

And there is talk of other great dead men

…

…

They both will die alive

One will learn to love anew

The other will learn to love alone

But the first will write about the other

While the other never thought about another