The Death of Our Impassioned Days

Friendship
Falters and fades
With ease

By the gradual
Withering
Of time

As exhaustion
Drains
Our impassioned days

Until all comfort
Is stretched
Too far and thin

And withdraw
Is bound
To each
Of our sullen forms

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Our Young and Aimless Wrath

We are
So easily dismayed
In these roving tides
That coddle our infant rage

Awash
With vengeful
And seething thoughts
We expunge
Our diverging truths

So easily swayed
To our temper’s brink
Our thoughts all fray
And fuel
Our wandering disgust

Speak softly
Mindful of all
And keep to the droves
So full, on their aimless
Rage and wrath

No Shame in the Lows of Fright

No shame
In scrambled thoughts
In the bedlam clutched
To every trembling
Verse I expunge

For all kin
Surely tussle
Within the same
Binds of fear

There is no shame
In the lows of fright
At the rolling hell
Of a sure
And ravenous demise

The infernal wheel is forged
Swollen to the brim
With the same
Winds of feign rage

Self-Centered Blindness

The hours wheel along
In desperate flight
Beneath the sprawl
Of silver and ivory skies

And nothing is worth
A passing glance
As I voyage
Further within

With weary bones
I slave upon tattered roads
Enshroud
And blinded by self

As autumn grey
Is hoist
To mangle my hopes
The bliss, that trembles
At the whim
Of my every fault

For Time’s Better Half

I’ve earned this plot of dirt
For dispassioned worms
Crawling
In the squalor of man

Cast off
For the greater good
Immersed in my own
Treacherous
And vengeful lot

Cast off
For the sprawl of time
Where the desperate sink
From the weight
Of their loveless plight

A Traveler’s Bounty

He washed ashore
Alone
At a cold day’s whim
Spent, by the wider world

Home
Was drained and sparse
With far and few words
Of welcome and joy

Few could speak
In league
With their tired kin

Few knew
Of the horrors
He reaped, so far ago

Housed in Paranoid Flesh

Sunbaked nerves
Permeate the whole
Of this wrecked
And time-ravaged home

Where panicked reveries
Scale, the withered walls
To ensnare
My most fragile of years

Lost resolve
Torments the frontal lobe
As a reveling ghost
Immersed
In a mire of distrust

The Keeper of Parched Demons

Never allow it
To slip from your fingers
In glistening shards
Passing, in shades
Of sultry red

Never allow the cry
Of liquid strength
To ascend and plume
In spires of black

Treasure
Its nourishing flow
Down, to the thankful caverns
To stall, your stride in rage

Never allow
Its thunderous
And jagged farewell
To leave the demons
Dwindled and parched

In their timeless
Shackles of quiet
Yet scheming disdain

Freedom Sold in Mass

Freedom drearily rolls
From careless lips
Harboring
A dull day’s concerns

It falls in silence
As the ghostly dream
So few can hope to attain

Freedom rings
In pitiful grey
So thoughtlessly spared
Far and wide

Staggering well
Beyond its roots
To be molded and mangled
By the hands
Of treachery and clout

Repulsive Silence

Between words he raged
With insides wrung
Firm, to their final gust

Heaving
With all his might
The verses stalled
Cold
In the binds of his throat

A repulsive silence hailed
Ushering all kin
To the roads
Of shame and dismay

Heaving
With mountainous veins
His urge to speak
Had swollen, to its vile
And thunderous brink