Danse Macabre

I can see your skeleton

Dancing wihout skin

Sickly thin but opened up

For anyone’s heart to wander in.

Peace of mind unveiled

Aware and mostly dead

But twirling in your skirt,

Dreaming as you exhale.

Free as dissipation,

Flatenned lungs kissing

Last breaths to beating hearts

Pumping through the intermission.

Roses thrown in jest

Cutting naked flesh,

Smile half-knowingly

Hand to your breast.

Curtsy as you walk

Ignoring all the talk,

Blending in uncomfortably

Till it’s time to dance again.

Pale as brittle bones,

Stepping with your toes,

Peeking through the blinds

To see what life you’re in.

 

 

Dissecting Power

 

Abuse and authority

Always amplify each other.

How can one life

Ascend over others

Without war?

A body exists

As a volitile reaction.

The subconscious seeks balance

While the organism

Breathes and bleeds.

Fish eat fish,

Wolves eat sheep,

Humans eat everything.

We all know this,

But we’re always hungry,

Always volitile,

And alive.

Momentum is everything,

Ride it or die.

Truth and justice are ideas,

Believe or set them loose.

Choices are an action,

Reactions are inevitable,

Power responds to power,

Or else slowly falls away.

Abuse and authority

Always amplify each other.

Balance and/or power,

Which is more free?

 

Re-Painting Our Slate

Constant metamorphosis

Cannot undo past realities.

Heritage and origin

Remain set once cast.

Growth and empowerment

Are forever before us,

But we cannot transform

Without carrying the past.

Remembered or forgotten,

Experiences create shape

Beyond any given moment

For us to configure.

Wishing and wanting

Provide no escape.

The harshest influences

Of our history still linger.

Desiring to overcome

And create something better

Requires and embrace

With the ghosts of our affliction.

Such bitter tastes

Often burn as they’re swallowed,

But sorrow’s recompense

Is the price of our ambitions.

 

 

Genesis

Oceans cascade

From unfathomable heights

Into the vast sculptured crevices

Of the planet’s bosom.

Numerous energies

Transmutated by tempest

Thrashed and torn asunder

Into pools of perfect chaos.

Writhing molecules

Repeatedly rearranged

In unprecedented forms

Of which many are miscarried.

Fortune’s devices

Favor but a few

Particular arrangements

To persist amid such tumultuousness.

Fluctuating forces

Pound vitality into matter,

Precipitating its progress

In discordant detumescence.

Patterns emerge

Inevitably in chance variables

Until at long last

A seedling erupts.

Implanted erection

Upon a rugged stone surface

Surfacing into the light

And its first growing pains.

Searing agony,

The flower’s contorted face

Gazing towards the sky

And screaming

“I’m Alive!”

 

 

 

Story Tellers

Watching words will read you,

Willingly or not. As it were,

We’re read as readers.

Eyes watching eyes see

Watching ourselves on T.V.

A subversive narrative is only

Narrative not yet subverted.

All writing is fiction as

All perceptions are hollow.

Naked words reveal nothing.

 

One thought fills immensity,

Well, it may as well,

As immeasurably limited is the Id,

The psyche soundly snug

In conceptual bliss.

Emptiness laughs to see

Loneliness subverted by such

Rationalized madness and

Imaginative beliefs.

Nature clings to anything,

Latching onto whatever’s present,

Precarious as it might be,

Only hoping to survive.

People pretend their whole lives,

Acting, dressing, watching, and telling.

At ease with their lies,

If at least it makes a good story.

Pride

From a pair of eyes outside myself,

I imagine I’d seem ridiculous.

In poor health ridiculing fate while

I’m too stubborn to take my medicine.

When every battle is both win and lose

Yet somehow I’m still competing.

Broken into submission so often despite

holding onto my dominion.

Conquest without progress

Like rage without any outlets.

Pride without a thing to gain

But I can’t stand to swallow it.

An empire made of nothing

As though anything is worth dying for.

Foolishness, addiction, or fear,

Alive to kill my time some more.

 

Do We Still See?

I’m afraid for us,

That your passions have made you passionless

And your blistering avidity for life makes you blinded

The goals and ambitions so tangible in your heart

But the obsession diminishes your perception

Things you used to love fall behind.

I can remember,

The ideas and predilections that once defined you

And the potential conceptions half conceived

When settling into a niche seemed unbearably futile

But we imagined for ourselves endless possibilities

If life were but a stage as we believed.

Do you believe?

That life’s confinements shackle you to this specialty?

That to overcome your demons you must succeed?

Perhaps the struggle to overcome defeats the purpose

Or maybe you’re just not as cynical as me.

When curtains close, we’ll sow as has been reaped.