[1984]

There is no sacrifice, there is no destination; only a crown of ice and a moment of desperation. There is no sacrifice, there is no compensation. Through judgements and avarice- trials and tribulationis. only the strong remain. Only the strong stand on their own two feet. And when the song that they sang becomes and anthem to the marching beat: feel proud to where that name, that silent marker of where true and false meet. A single word utter in shame, and you'll find yourself beneath the streets. The pain you know, while no more true than this, will feel only like pinpricks from a great distance. The comparison between night and day will mean nothing to you in that prison. But keep your lips sealed, and your thoughts pure-nothing nothing but good of our name and you'll be free from that punishment; that cleansing; that retribution through shame. I'll lay your head down gently, upon the pillow and blankets covering your bed; but when you wake up, precious, pray to God you'll remember what's been said. The past is only the present, and the future we own, without license or law. We make the past in the present, and alter the future for all who shall come along. Peace is war. Freedom is slavery. Consider this your warning. You'll survive this by behaving. Doublethink your way through the nonsense, and cast away any doubt, because we came along just fine without you, and we'll continue to do so without.

Renewal.

The waters are flowing, the trees are sprouting from beds of black soil.
Fertility showing, seeds have impregnated the impenetrable ground.
The thunder from the skies is lessened; we are able to afford our toil.
Watching the sky- birdless- brings a surreal sense of euphoria to the unsound.

And when my ears hear the music of a harp in the distance, I trudge through frozen plains, hungry mud, and finally I awake.
It was only a dream, after all.
If there's any justice in this universe, the music will cease.
The beauty of its horrid sound has me enthralled.
I stalk upon the broken glass surface of what was once the desert.
My reflection is troubling.
The bags under my eyes are too dark.
The skin is too pale and too wrinkled.
I find the source of the discord,
a broken bicycle wheel with spokes like strings
being strummed by the fingers of a newly sprouted tree.
The wind is just right for the wheel to spin,
not too harsh, or too light, perfect for the sound of music.
And, against all odds, the sound produced becomes beautiful;
even though the strings are old and rusted, and thick with dirt- dull metal.
A voice of sorts is created in the failing light,
and I look back upon the plain of glass, to what used to be the west;
peering upon the ruined skyline of the city, my heart beating in my chest.
I still wonder how long ago those buildings had risen, powerful and vivid.
I still wonder how such beauty can still survive in a place so poisonous and pitiful.
So filthy.
So deprived.
The wind finally stops,
and the music subsides...
and still it provides,
and still it entices,
it gives me a hope
and I feel I can survive this.

Scorched Earth.

Sand is turned to glass;
green pastures have turned black.
The air is thick and rancid with
the smoke; makes us sick.

The price to pay for power,
the price to pay for comfort.
The trigger pulled is the dream lulled,
suspended in time, forever a vision;
forever a hope, eternally wishing.

Wishing for water that is drinkable,
for fruit unspoiled.
Wishing for sunshine that comforts,
for fertile soil.
Wishing for a hand to hold,
a pair of ears, valid;
a pair of eyes, not blind;
a pair of legs to walk on,
a hand to reach up, to the cloud-covered sky.

The price to pay for comfort (the air from our lungs)
the price to pay for power (was taken without cause)
has torn down our towers (for some)
has spoiled our waters. (there's nothing)
A hand to hold (like taking)
a hand to bite (away)
a hand to steal from in the dead of night.
That hand was yours,
that hand was ours.
That hand was there's.
That hand was mine.

There is no box.

there is no box.
we step over boundaries that we've created.
they are not in place.
only our eyes can see them.
so it is our duty to try and reshape
the boundaries that keep us at bay.
to obliterate them, to cast them away.
it is our duty to make our own way.

there is no box.
no matter what anyone may say.
there is no boundary, there is no limit,
there is only the soul and the extent to which you feel it.

erase the lines!
soul, body, and mind!
erase the lines!
boundaries, limits, and time!

The Artful Arsonists.

Let's build a fire!
Let's burn our fears away!
Set our worries to the wind!
Bid them farewell, my friends!
Hold safely to one another!
And never see them again!

Hold onto your dreams,
they make quick work of fading.
Silence your needs,
your desires are abating.
Dress in short sleeves,
the sun is awakening.
We'll conquer fear,
our minds are worth saving.

Time is the immortal,
constant but unstable;
and like any Greek god:
it is unwilling although able.
With its own regard held closely,
as if in a game of Hearts,
Time's Eye rolls loosely
in its socket counter-part.
There's an art to survival.
There's a will to do what works;
and a chance to do more than that-
in spite of value or worth.
There's a dance to adhere to.
There are signs to follow;
but no reason to do so-
other than to keep peace.

Burn away the doubt,
let it fall to the sand
so the tide carries it out.
Burn away denial,
suffer from it no longer,
keep close to your family:
your parents, sons, and daughters.

Burn away the youth,
that blameful beast without tact;
let it find its own way home
without ever looking back.
And if the tide does not come,
then the lines will still show
from the fires we've built,
from the stitches we've sewn.

Bandaged wounds still bring pain,
but the dichotomy between bare
and covered is the line between
night and day; death and discomfort.
Pray the moon still allows the tide to rise,
for the sake of our growth, and for the sake of our lives.

[The Student]

Still over a thousand miles to walk before home is within sight, but I find a comfort in this fact; a solace that all will be set right.
I'm not one to preach- my soapbox was never very stable- but this is an important thing to be heard; and I am still alive to speak: I am well and able.
Cherish each and every moment with the clarity of the air during a June afternoon in Maine.
Do not dwell on discomfort; do not live life in remembrance of pain.
Hear me well, I beg, may it do you well on your travels.
You're the light of someone's life, and an umbrella when the sky unravels.
Turn not your cold shoulders to those who would suffer for you;
cast not a fearful eye upon those you do not understand.
What can you possibly know without ever learning it?

It takes a mind, a heart, and a soul to truly determine truth from shit.

The words that I sputter, the words that I mangle with my hands between my thoughts and this page:
they mean something to somebody, I hope; but if not, upon my course I shall stay.
Because time is simply relative: if these words bring hope in future times
then my purpose is achieved, after all; these words are my messages sent through time.

[The Victim]

Lives were changed without purpose or reason;
paths were altered, like the collision of seasons.
In cold blood, fingers traced mortal wounds;
my family is gone, and there is no hope this soul.

Survivor's guilt is the understatement of my life.
I've been alone for three long, wakeful nights.
And each morning as the sun breaches the horizon:
I wonder what makes me so special as to keep alive, when
all I've done with my time is cast it to the wind;
when the only real accomplishments are small in comparison
to the lives that were taken from my heart;
the family that I had loved;
the family that I'd yet to start.
So what is there to do but sit and mourn my dead?
I've tried to sleep, but their voices fill my head.
I'll try to eat, but I know it's all in vain;
it's only a matter of time before he returns to end my name.

So I sit and flip through photographs held in place by plastic,
travelling back to the past as if time was melted; elastic.
I sit up, late at night, before a fire, coaxing the return of my dead.
I cry aloud, but there is no one left to hear what is said.

[The Guilty]

I am the wolf,
     Alone but capable.

I am the knife,

     Gleeming pale silver.

I am the blood,

     Running in streamlets.

I become the sun,

     Rising above this.

A fictional lack of substance.

     I have the tools to reestablish

my very name.

     My very self.

I am the wolf.

     And nothing else.

[The Scribe]

The written word is a written joke.
Behind these lines lie words, like spokes
keeping the rim of the wheel solid, and sure;
keeping the rubber rolling forward, evermore.

The visual barriers beyond the paper.
The concept of love muddled until later.
In the heart of the night, cold winds are howling:
a quesion some would never dare to think of asking-
Does this matter, after all is said and done?
Do words push back the shadows as sure as the rising sun?
"Write it down," the world demands.
But how can one steady such nervous, shaking hands?
With the very will to inform (to survive, to inspire),
there is no will to conform (to the lies; to truth under fire!)

Words can inspire the truth,
but how do they inspire you?
Uniformity is last in the line
when priorities
are check, this time.

Writing a verse to fill up the pages;
a convenient snapshot of truth through words
that lasts through the very ages.

[The Law]

An unbiased representation
of the unalterable contracts
between the men and women,
between humans, for substance.
Pidgeons to creoles; transitions to new homes.
Follow (follow);
follow or pay the price.
Iron bars are all the company
that you can afford in the night.
Actions are not words that you can erase like graphite;
they are permanent, they are pen.
But one can always amend.
Pray to God...
...as if he supports these memes; these laws of the living.

The Prisoner.

[The Prisoner] (a lyrical work of fiction i.e.: 'I' does not mean me and so on and so forth haha.)


Keep me in the clear, save these hands from shaking.
All I have to fear is losing the progress I've been making,
my dear, my dear.

And despite the risks of drawing lines,
I've found a home right here, drawn inside;
and I've changed, oh, how I've changed.

Hold-ing on to memories, moving fast; like the cars that travel past, this place in which I reside.
Know- that the wheels spin so sure, keeping pace: they're undetoured; like a thought that holds no lie.

And despite the risks of drawing lines,
I've made a home right here, deep inside;
and I've changed, oh, how I've changed.

Time and measurements aside: I ask, ascance, for remnants of lines long since written in pale moonlight.
Hold onto memories perchance that the facts will change the hands that are dealt to us this time.

Once more is enough to last for all of time,
I build you up to break you down in pride;
and even then I knew I'd be rid of you,
I'd be sick of you; and yet I've changed.
Despite the risks of telling lies,
I've made a home of them, inside;
but I've changed, oh, I swear I've changed.

Beware of Quick Sand and Snakes Posing as Vines.

Our past lives bewildered, our new winds deliver;
the stagnant quality of swamps will bother me
no longer; old adages put aside for alternative truths-
shaping myself in this time, now post-youth.

Who is to blame for the time lost?
Where does it go, except to the wind?
Like labelling dreams with high costs:
a season of life where only lies bring wins.

No pattern to this inkblot failure;
no sight to set the scopes upon.
Oh, watch for the heretic enabler;
and beware!
For the season of change has begun.

Where are the Girl Scout Cookies?

Given: there is insult to injury- spoken.
The words delivered to the stranded children.
Break their spirits, and their hearts wide open.
Aged and worn is the innocence held- token.

Like a blanket laundered far too many times,
the fabric of our morals is nothing more than random squares and lines.

Flight takes us above the distinction.
Lies turn our truth into fiction.
Signs pointing to roads far ahead:
the road's straight despite what it says.

Ka.

War and peace are not black and white,
but shades of grey in this failing light.

A key, a rose, an unfound door
leave me tracing my steps back to before.
A note, a cross, and an empty message
find me wishing you well and granting safe passage.

Letters to words to sentences to stories:
we've been created beyond all those boundaries.
From lead to ink to digital computation:
we've been given these hands to shape what we're given.

A wheel, a wind, a renewed storm:
the rains of fate are falling once more.

Blue Light Special.

Every word under scrutiny;
vicious denials monitored.
There's no blood in this mutiny.
Only voices going unheard.

Attention is shifted to the restless.
The power of numbers stands endless.

Gone from existence,
thrown out of power,
words that have kept us
prisoners to cowards.

Dreams become our only posessions.
When they strike with the crudest of weapons.
Dreams are our only possessions
when they take our homes without pension.