The Honest Few

The lovers restrained
Unfazed by the solitude they’ve gained
They instead nurture the soul of their bond
Whisking ones earnest emotion,
To where the words are also fond

Here’s to these honest few
At the helm of their romance
Fresh faced and new
Here’s to an age of foolish reluctance
Buttoned down by innocence
And adhering to its dominance

But I say to them, “Do what you must”
For a lover’s warmth can be taken in a gust
Unchain the verse that dwells within
And covet the silence, where your voyage may beginImage

A Withering Sail

He hungers not
For what the ocean may yield
As his eternity winds down
Trudging slow toward its final hour

Home
Sways atop the bustling tide
Creaking and moaning
Her bones rusted and brittle
Tired from her long way
Courting generations shore to shore

The man
Holds steady at the helm
With only the lapping waves
To ease his battle hardened earlobes

White locks flutter
As the high noon star crumbles
Disintegrating, into a cool blistering purple

But the ages dragged on
With a glare of hopelessness
Weighted by the open, the vast and empty

Gem encrusted nights
No longer blanket the shuttering vagabond
With drained pupils fixed forward
And his frail chattering limbs, guiding the helm
But he does not levy an inch
Trudging westward, engulfed in nightfallImage

Carefully Distilled

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What was, red blooded romance
Is now docile, dormant, and framed
Distilled by mass
In their rosy pink bundles
And out by the droves
Quiet and stillborn

I heave with agony
At the armies of rouge
Hue, pink
Stinking of juvenile infatuation!

My angst wrenches every muscle I possess!
As fluttering hearts
Clog the avenues
The Plazas the boulevards
Swinging their locked hands
While they goosestep carefree
Slobbering and gorging the entire time

But heartache still reaches me
Far away, in my icy caverns
Where the mists covet my frame with obscurity
Lapping up my own somber reasoning
My own carefully distilled loneliness

Garbed in Blue

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Squawking buzzards
Hang above my rigid frame
Awaiting, with a sickly hunger
Gathering, massing
Thieving of these winter skies

Far gone and bleeding
Where the muskets bore through
Not a whimper in my voice
Not a thought in my skull
I graciously
Die, blissfully unaware

It was a fleeting honor
For the twentieth Maine
Garbed in sacred blue
Bayonets at the ready

We sprang for madness
Shouting to higher glory
As the cannons butchered, and maimed
Sparring not a soul
No fresh face unscathed
I caught my fate
Swift, clean, and painless
Another notch to their belts
Another name, pressed and sold

Closure

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In somber resolve
Where she perished and dissolved
Disheveled and dismembered
For the poor souls to recall

With one passing thought
I crumbled, grief stricken and distraught
All for her greater good
Far beyond, what is tame and understood

Scorn
Wields her dominance, like an iron saber
Thrust in me, so I may gush and savor
Where will I turn in the wisps of madness?
Cursed and deranged, somber and breathless
Never to attain
What was, blissfully insane