Writing

Human reed

In my hands

Time itself

I could put it down

But I can’t pick it up again

Minutes pass

Is it colder?

 

I can’t tell anymore

 

Clocks are just ticking things

Life makes them ring

Fingers withered

My voice still sings

The spark and the fuel

For the myriad things

It’s all just words

It’s all just words

Still now old aeolian harp

This one’s for you

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Writing

Sing Sign

It is a strange thing to see the board, as your train pulls into the station, lit up with the same place you departed not 50 minutes ago. A train to return to its origin, my home, a name glowing white like some false beacon echoing from the future. My destination, my transportation, in a mere 9 hours time. A taunt, a challenge, the futility of another day. Why not stay? Why not win early? Why not head home while the sun is still in the sky? (Somewhere, behind that grey winter haze). The afternoon rush beaten. Not to stand but seat-ed. No post work madness, gladness, dullness, soreness. To enjoy the passing scenery. To play with my dogs that will be there to greet me, if they were not asleep. Dreaming of a walk tomorrow. Before I go to work tomorrow. Before I catch a train tomorrow. And do it all again.

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Writing

Train of Thought

Trains are better than buses

Buses aren’t better than trains

If you still think buses are better

Try waiting when it rains.

 

You don’t get stuck in traffic

When you’re on a train, it’s true

Unless you’re at a level crossing

Then the traffic gets stuck on you.

 

So they’re replacing level crossings

So its safer for cars and trains

Which is why I’m catching buses

And complaining when it rains.

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Writing

Demon

It crept up on me, like some ungodly web-crazed tangle of black leginess, tumbling toward it’s own terrifying self-satisfied destruction, tearing at foe and family, burning with violent intent, it flew and paced and waited and goaded and exploded upon me. A fear, frigid and intense, like lightning slowed to a gasp, irrational, illogical, impossible and permanent and scarring, towering above me and opening far below, a chasm of being, awash without mercy, aghast at my own petty insignificance, a spec of raw emotion in a whirling chaos of nihility. Anger, fear, love, contempt, all indistinct and incomplete. Ambition, thwarted soon as thought of. Annihilation, impulsive life denied of. A tower of indeterminate control. Power without form. A raw compst heap. A blip. Fear itself. Awful. Artifice. Imposition. Fear. Itself. What else?

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Writing

imperfect

​There is a certain beauty

In an imperfect thing

Evisioned as a perfect map

From an imperfect mind

Some broken state of being

A catastrophic creation

A cup with a chip

A blemished bowl

Some alliterated altercation

Long ago, or closer still

An historic fascination

When this being became complete

Imperfect

When viewed through a perfect lens

Of a perfect idea

Of that which is no longer

By an imperfect mind

And forced to confirm this self

This deluded force

Which sees what isn’t there

And in the absence of perfection

Beauty.

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