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Weaves of mysteries untangled
Threads lie in the daimon
Of the cabal cache
Dolour from the knowledge
A minute price for a gem
That sends the mind gyring
Into an interminable web of questions.

And when the precious stone is tucked away
The narcia and eupathy of a billion broken souls is felt,
With the united-ness of an apathy
Which plagues every caring man
That walks the streets and pledges his love to a million suitors
In the darkness of instinctual lust
With no recollection of the cabal cache he awed at before.

The three misunderstood men

Look at the gaupus.
The gawk
And the dolt.
They should be ashamed
Of their manners
Their fribbles
And their gees.
But they won't
The gaupus will remain daffy
The dolt will be faust
And the gawk will continue his gawkry.
Until at last
The barriers shatter
With echoes of ignorence
And the gaupus,
The gawk
And the dolt
Are reveared for their intelligence.

In the heat of the war

The breeze ęstable seems to have fallen early
For the ice of a frigorific winter is still intact
Within the entourage of elated men
Who ended the cold solemn silence abruptly
By means of a doughty warm front
Leaving the patrons and laymen to wonder
"Who stole spring?"

The Void

There is nothing
But the nothing
That makes life worth living.

4/12/99 (in sleep)
Banned Books

Marching onto the paper
The soldiers go in grammatical formation
With guns fully loaded over their shoulders
And then the sergeant gives the order
Ink flows from the guns
And lands onto the battle field
As delicately as a springtime mist.
From the ends of their world
The landscape is changed
Marked by black puddles.
The commander finally shuts his eyes
And says at last
"It is written in eternity"

Plant, Life

So, what's the dew leaving for the afternoon
And what's it matter anyway
After the drink it'll all shrivel up
Winter will come
And it will again be the soil
Then what does the dew matter
Besides making the summer mornings all the sweeter
Compared to the evening droughts.

A New World

Tonight they mourn
Huddled up in masses to stay warm.
In unbearable conditions borne
Of the conviction for righteousness.

In circles around the fire
Prayers for peace fill the hallowed land.
Where the crops once stood
And now putrid graveyards of men and children stand.

Is it right to let the bird eat the worm
Or shall we just kill the bird and spare the worm
Maybe we should kill them all
But wait, when has killing become a benevolent call?

Still bombs fall
Shots ring out
Men fall
And women shout.

A fair trade perhaps?
Some lives for what,
What are they dying for,
For what are sonless mothers crying for?

Is it their clothes;
Tattered and torn to shreds
By the many days of clinging to a life
That hangs by a thread?

Is it their wealth and land;
The cracker worth of money they have,
Which they must split amongst a household,
That they hold with mortality in there enfeebled hand.

And is this world really born anew
Though it still has the invisible stains of old?
What is it with people like you and me,
Why have we all come to believe that we are warm while growing so cold?

De Benne Esse

Maybe in the aftermath
Of an internal conflict gone power crazy
I will hold my head up and say,
"It is done."
The years of trying to walk through the mirror
So I could meet myself.
The hours spent in morbid consideration,
Wondering if I'll ever be something, feel something.
Maybe I will wind up with what has consumed me
Quenching this compulsive desire to know and be.
Walking side by side with the center I thought not to exist
But with every bit of wishing power I had, begging to exist.
With the eupathy now imbedded deep enough to hold me
Will I land in a cold city district marked by burnt out stoplights
With the people who had the same ideals as I once had
And will I be locked there
Existing as the ostracized idealist I was when I was a child
By the binding force of street law
Will I lie blue and friendless
With my grave being no more than a frozen street corner?
But now I can change, I can become something else
I could be a business man
Or some rich tycoon
And live a life full of every vanity and luxury.
But I should never forget, they say never forget,
The trauma and anguish that the past has soothed
And it is not over; it will never end as long as I am.
Should I shut my eyes and dance happily upon my living grave
Or should I lay my head upon the shoulder of the friend that I do not have
Letting tears of confusion be wafted down like dead leaves in the fall
And profess how much thinking is acidic to a happiness that's made of rain.
How far can I possibly get from the enemy
Whence he is me and my legs are sore
I cannot run
Will I ever be pacate and say, "It is done"?


It is a crusade you cannot understand
Unless you put on the armor and mount the horse
Willing to take a trip going to the promised land.

Traversing deserts, mountains and plains
Lack of water, lack of food
Forever spilled blood stains.

And just when you get pushed to the limit
Ready to trade off your life for peace
The conviction that this trip has meaning hits a summit.

Quitting is no longer an option
Every step of the war is toward peace
With each gain spawning no satisfaction.

It is the riddle of the monk
That he is dedicated to solving
Through abstruse means.

It is the crusade to the within
That steals away the true knights life
While giving it the meaning it breeds.

Saviors with nothing to save

We are all the knights who fight together
Trying to right wrong
And make ourselves feel better.

We all dream
Of something more than we know we will ever have
And though impossible we hope they'll come true.

We are what it is possible for us to be
Not what we want to be
And we will never be more than that.

Yet we all know
That we cannot right wrong without wrong
Dreams can come true
And we are only bound by ourselves and our carnal nature.

The Changes

With the illusion of change must it repeat
Over and over
And yesterdays flow into tomorrows
Like the black that erases white.

Yesterday it was buried
Nearly sights length in a shroud of apathy
But then the apathy was washed away by a light wind of realization
That stung like swallowing a bee.

Now it is atimately dictating action
But it will not last.

Down it will go,
Even deeper this time into a pile of exile.

Tomorrow it will be buried
While a calming apathy frollicks unchallenged
But the wind of reality lays keen
Like the cat eyeing the mouse.

Sable will again replace the light
As tomorrow bleeds into the next day
Over and over again
The change repeats but looks new.

Prospect of Unknown

A halo of hope hangs above its head
Casting a radiant light
Making the shadow of its figure look more beautiful than words can describe.

It is not an aesthetic beauty
Which is spawned by mutinous impulses

It is a beauty decorated in mystery
An enigma that reflects hope

The stranger is standing stagnant and still
With radiant light being cast
Making the fact that we are strangers more wonderful than words can describe.


The song that sings the fate no one wants to hear
Rings loud throughout the valley smear:
Upon a hill dandelions are blowing in the soft wind under blue skies
Adding a glow to the already neon grass on one of those picturesque summer days.
As evening arrives the clouds grow, and the trees offer their leaves to the heavens
The zephyr turns violent and the clouds erupt
Dandelions are tossed across the hilly countryside.
The next day as the sun raises above the horizon the hill is stricken of dandelions
Instead their children are imbedded in some far away rolling land
Where they will grow and do the same as their parents planed.


I could sing like a prophet
And my words still would not be heard
As more than a mad mans raving.

I could invent the most splendid things
That could alter the world
Yet I do not have the tools.

Maybe I could destroy happiness
By breathing the pain of education into everyone
And blow the world up with a word not a bomb.

Maybe I could understand what is going on
And why I have no chance to try
to understand.

The Ant

It is no stronger than the chalice you yearn to drink from
And its contents are no less sweet.
What it has to offer
Is plainly shown on the side of the glass;
As a transparent wonderland
Filled with mistakes and accidents,
Scratches and the occasional mended crack.
Looking to heaven, through the bottom, everything is distorted,
And the paintings of imagination are drawn with intense convictions
As a love manifest from emptiness that cannot be explained.
But, with our exalted view looking down, it all seems so mundane;
Find the taste you fancy then take your fill.
It is so simple a philosophy a child could grasp it,
Yet so hard a concept an adult seldom has it within their decrepit hands.
And no matter how hard you hold it,
How careful you sip your favorite poison,
If it is dropped it will break
And the world will stop for a second
To shed a tear and grab a broom
While placing the remains out of sight
And praying for a remedy to mend this fragile mortality.
No goblet can hold water forever
But the thought of our own delicacy is fain overlooked
By the thought of our own magnanimity.
So, in our godly shadow we fall to the cold hard floor
In the place no one wants to look at anymore.


Upon the soul the wish is set
That we are more than flesh and bone
More an animal yet,
Conviction locked states we alone
Are kings of the earth
With crowns of egotism
For we have the divine right at birth
And carry the scepter of gasconism,
Which portrays our self as more;
The scepter and the crown
Exist as human lore
Trying to prove that deep down
We are animals no more,
Yet nothing is farther from the truth
Each step is with instinct
And every conviction of fantasy is not sooth.

I think, therefore I might be

Peaking over the horizon and painting the sky
The heaven's art stole the eye
Stole the concrete
And let loose the abstract
Into the hypothetical
No laws, no limits
No thoughts, no things
No direction, no right.

Where do we go from here.
While magnets to our compass adhere
Eyes shut
And spinning
Into the abyss of understanding
No reason, no rhyme
No thoughts, no things
No real, no surreal

Nothing but the paradox of nothing.


The letters are the key
To the door bolted
And the missing
Is the key
To the inside
And the inside is the understanding
Which is lost
But the letters,
The words
They say it exists,
They say what I want them too
I want it to exist.

Is This Life?

There is no more time for sleep;
That death that gives off live,
There is no more time to dream;
Those fantasies that take the place of life,
There is no more time to think;
That thing which spawns individuality,
There is no more time to be me;
That person who is a vadelect,
There is no more time to serve;
Those wasted hours,
There is no more time for time;
That obsolete form of measurement,
There is no more time to measure;
That made up system for understanding,
There is no more time to reason;
That privilege which we are blessed with,
There is no more time for us;
That mass which serves,
There is no more us;
We are dead.

Broken cliché of amity...

I do not love you,
I love the way you make me feel,
I enjoy the few minutes whence my eyes fall upon you,
When I forget about everything and put my faith in you
While pretending to forget to know better.

I do not love your smile,
I love the way it warms me up inside
I try feverishly and impulsively to grasp the feeling for an aeternity
Because it makes me forget for a second
That life is empty.

I do not love the childish look in your eyes,
I love the way it reminds me of how pure a human can be
I hope that I too can achieve that most envied ignorance,
I try to have blind faith in luck and I,
But then I realize happiness is temporary and vain.

I do not love you the way you seem to love me,
I love the way that it feels to know that I am something
And I love the illusion that I matter, that I exist
Though all is not right,
But it seems that way when I am with you.

I do not love you,
You do not love me,
We love the way we make each other feel
But that is not the same as loving each other,
And I love you for that.


Just one more hackneyed mass of hieroglyphs to add to the collection
Of nonsense literary works,
But as math is the hypothetical language of the universe
Writing is the language of the hypothetical soul.
The words are written just as inches are assigned to height,
And interpreted as values given to numbers,
Though all in all it is just an incorrect reflection of the inside;
Another pile without a base.

A Villain and a Noble

A whispered whim passed on through an echoes whirl
Shapes the sphere soundly with a menacing tirl.
Playwrights write of the melody,
With awe and loathing.
Poets muse the lyrics
With metaphors and rhymes cohering.
Neither the writer's nor the plebeian's imagination can fathom
The distance a fanciful ideal can march
While upon a hero's back,
Nor can they imagine the possibility
Of all the mad mans ravings.


Love is Apathy

In deep meditation
The boundaries are melded and lost
.......... There is no difference
There is no standard, but the nothing which everything is.
.......... There is no dissonance
.......... There is no difference
.......... There is no contrast
Everything is the same,
.......... Not happy
.......... Not sad
Nothing can ruin it,
Except the thought that believing in nothing is bad.

Then I open my eyes to world
My misunderstanding manifests boundaries
.......... There is a difference now.
There is a standard and nothing cannot escape being contrast to everything
.......... There is dissonance
.......... There is difference
.......... There is contrast.
Everything is not the same,
.......... Happy,
.......... Sad,
Everything can ruin it,
Except the thought that believing in nothing is good.

It is a matter of opinion,
A matter of philosophy,
.......... There is what you say there is
There is a standard if you so deem
.......... There might be dissonance
.......... There might be difference
.......... There might be contrast
Everything could be the same,
.......... Maybe happy,
.......... Maybe sad,
Maybe it can be ruined,
But only if we do not accept what we do not hold.