Life Is Not A Ploy

Though there would be

immediate disagreement in one,

quiet satisfaction in another,

in the final hour,

one would realize if they did stop

to glance,

a world beyond their own device,

would, might

still exist,

and in that social fabric ignored,

a pain,

a fighting soul

whose rapture not found

might emulate

the sorrowful nature

of a discompassionate ploy.

 

Yes, simply a game,

beyond the reality of our terms,

defined by the human condition,

a banter of

despondent disregard

favors

only the regarded one …

or two, or three, or miles of more,

so difficult it is to understand

the lemings at my door.

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Poison’s Touch

Breathe a sweet ardor

travels inside mind’s eye,

wishful, wistful, desire fleeting,

a want speaks of love, what we know

sometimes not the same,

what we will

could then become

what we are

when the shadows disappear,

the shades are drawn,

an empty glass display case

shatters in the quiet night of our reckoning.

~

That’s when the real of the world

becomes a sliding reel of memory

wanting to hold court only with our brief respite of

sanity.

So ill-begotten is the pleasure of agenda,

when still in the mind,

our hopes – perhaps simple dreams – an envy

tears apart any fabric of imagination

that makes allowance

alabaster’s human condition.

~

When then I spent a day with a powerful dream,

that which fed,

nourished my need,

well might my vulnerable soul,

that I choose to splay in the public eye,

might that demeanor,

suddenly have at its doorstep

a loss,

a wake of impassioned victory,

that the poisonous quill of insanity,

draws away our inner peace,

eats away,

devours any sense of reality –

might we then whither away,

yet no peace.