Winding Down

Fallibility of life reaching out tonight,
fragrance of stagnating hope
all while waiting at this bus stop.

Sounds of crying and decay
all around
and in
consuming and infiltrating.

I can feel the sins of my own excess
crying up from the ground against me,
mixing and matching,
falling in ordered lineup
along nightmares
from long ago.

But what does one do
when one's dreams
become their terror of the night
and what does one do
when the god of self reaches out to embrace?

I am, I am, I am
screams out of purgatory
where the worst possible sentence
is getting everything you ever asked for
with nothing in return.

Freedom in a Hell of your own making,
falling and free
just within the constraints
of your own sick mind.

Freedom, true freedom
bought with blood
of a meek Lamb
and horrifyingly awe-some Lion
one of three
entwined beyond comprehension,
because human meaning.

It is, it is, it is
is what shall be said
and forever spoken of.


These poems, these words
never can they seek to convey
or illustrate
the complexities
and depth of my mind
and the thoughts
and the motives,
all which drive and push me onward.

You, dear reader,
the one reading
and filling in the gaps as it goes
we create this picture together.
Time and space are ignored
and the letters meld together
to form images
and a painting
varying in shades and hues.

The question,
is what do you see?
Does it matter what I meant?
Most of the time I have no,
these words just fall
and fall
and make their place.

Why?
No, not the most important question
but it is one that has driven me
since the chaos broke out.
However, since no one here knows
it'll simply have to be.

Choices, decisions, becomings, directives
and here we lay.

Lies and truth run together
and I look forward to the day
I leave all of this behind,
this soot and ash
and false words of no substance,
placating lies
perpetuating false grace.
My tongue just as guilty
so I point to myself first,
just know it hurts as well.