Poetry And Short Stories

Wrought by heavy, calloused hands,

But we carry on, better for our burdens

Shoulders stronger at the back's expense,

Frustration guides idle hands

Another listless, lazy cloud

Lumbers above, about,

Half-truths and twice-lies

Run amok with idle minds

Cloud and concrete darken, dampen,

The Sun unseen, time loses all sense

And malaise runs rampant

Shrugging off, again,

The mud and stone

Moss, overgrown

Like wild, patient flames

Consumed,

By the phantoms of morning's rain.

The hills are haunted,

And wandered,

As desperation disolves

The browning leaves whirl

The lost feelings you've been searching for

Down in the deep,

You struck the scarred earth,

Loosing the black well,

Drowning for your effort,

Fang and tail,

May lead you nowhere fast,

But it does often help,

With puzzling out the problems,

And unraveling the tangled stresses,

Descends, biting and cold,

Blustering indifferently,

Through the naked branches.

Bundle up, be safe,

Hold the last line against Autumn's chilling,

Hands of icy dawn,

That pluck leaves from their branches,

Everything feels so near-detached,

And unfamiliar.

No, I remember.

Just,

That the life you find yourself with,

That you wake up ensnared in,

Is so far from the gild and wonder,

Sometimes shallow and fleeting,

Often deep and terrible.

Each night, I sink beneath the covers,

Heavy under the mounting stresses,

Some are old and scabbed over,

Picked and scratched until bloody,

Some new and ripe,

Plucked from the troubles of the day,

Adrift in the nothing between stars,

Careening along the streams and cosmic byways,

Numb to the quiet loneliness,

And the slow, slow, suffocation,

Dreamily wondering what distant shores,

Might hold up my weariness