Below the Triumph of Saints


May I roam without effort
Through the bends of the day
With a mind
Anchored to peace

May I peel back the layers
Of triumph and sorrow
And spear through the heart
Of my earthly trials

But I’ll surely fall
Ever-sullen and sore
Enshrouded by angst
And clouded with fret

And surely the world
Will soar unfazed
As towering saints
Take hold of my dreams


Impossible Solace (A Madman Laments)


The ache grows
Into a gathering fog of unrest
Laying siege
To my refuge of dawn

Taunting curves
Singe without pause
Mercilessly slashing
At the womb of my wants

The pulsating need
Is the torment I reap
That pummels my nerves
Until these love-sick bones
All rage

Until my wishful mind
Is but a simmering stew
Adrift without use
To the worldly swell

I am shamefully blue
And the hour is lost
In the chattering dusk
Where all beggars dissolve

Amid Total Silence


A bittersweet silence
Enshrouds these endless nights
Set free
From the heartless bustle of men

Until their ghostly words
Recover in streams
In an aimless haze
Sent plundering the mind

To pull away
Is all for naught
For the butchering looms
In silent mass

To disengage
Is a feeble aim
For their seas grow full
And consume
All there is to be known

Escape is Alive


I am so hopelessly enthralled
By roads unclaimed
The perfectly paven joys
I dream, to truly know

From child-bearing arms
I peer in pure angst
Aquiver with rage
To embark
Unsought for and free

Escape is alive
Fire-bred and marrow deep
Gleefully awaiting
Its call to arms

And fear is amok
The sacred refrain
I faithfully utter
From these comforting snares

The Yearly Freefall


Through the motions of joy
I adhere
So secretly drawn
To my yearly dismay

Driven far off
To the morrow’s swarm
My dreams all bustle
And rage to despair

I am tarnished and stalled
In a freefall and frenzy
In the murderous haze
My veil of feign strength

What’s Done Shall Soon Emerge


He’s known all along
Of your straying
Vice- riddled path
Every rolling hill of your despair

He’s known
Of the treachery they bring
Every withering dune you forge
From the grains of your verse

He’s known all along
Of the towering faults you breed
In the heartless
Stride of your days

He’s known
And not a word is spared
As he thoughtfully wades
Ever-calm in wait

A Merciful Judge


You impressionist of men
As your noose draws tight
In your fearful delay

Let the masses consume
Let them plunder and feed
Until agony prevails
In every cavern you bear

The hour draws near
You must gracefully fall
And dissolve in the sway
Of your bellowing regrets

Confess, confess
Or silence is king
The unyielding lash
The torment you’ll keep

Confess, confess
And infernal rage
Is your lonesome tyrant
Your fair and merciful judge

Whiskey Sour


You run warm with courage
And I sink tried and true
From the roles I know

All time disbands
Before triumph disrobed
Uncorked, unsheathed
And primed for the fall

A torturous dawn
Is my pride and joy
The heaving
The sputter
Of my worthless form

Fault Lines


I chase the daily refrain
In an offbeat stride
With fault lines raging
Across my flesh

Refuge is few and far between
In the maddened trail I carve
For the rail-bound peril I trust

A deathly pulse is spawned
And off I race
Into frostbitten arms
For the coils
Of the common man’s strife

To stalk the daily rhythm
To encompass its strength
Its thundering rage
To joyously thrive