Tasteless

The sunset upon ocean waves
So cliche
Words pour out like bile
Enamel rotting sentences

Such is the work
Such is the writing
A novice
A fake

One who writes without soul
Who’s heart is without
Writing but words
Sloppily dragged across the scroll

Anxiously destitute in spirit
Like worms crawling out
Hollow as a political promise
Shifty as that

No foundation
Destined to fall
To collapse in life
Or without

Death
The end of all
Always dark
So familiar

Why?
Why can’t the clouds be purple
And seas a sickly yellow?
Hmm?

I ask thee
Can’t the meadows be ominous
Storm clouds pleasant rain?
Can they?

Why must the leader’s hand direct?
Or the conductor’s stop
The flow of music
The music never stops

No never

Likewise our souls linger
Caught up in worldly paths
Struggle to free themselves
From clutches unknown

So why should our hands stop?
Create, live, laugh, cry…
Allow the emotions to flow
Not the thoughts

Thoughts cloud a worried heart
But tears an eye will clear
Thus a full heart trumps
An empty mind.