On the road is where I belong

Always passing through

But never staying–

Long enough to get attached.

The cares are drowned in the rush of wind

And the silence of the nights

Barren of human life.

The stars are my companions

The moon, my vacant candle

Illumination unmerited by fate.

Pictures are all I have of memories

Faded, brittle prisons of thoughts

Scattered upon the dash and floor,

Marked by muddy footprints

And salty snow. 

I sleep in my haven

Of gentle woodland grove

And find the dreams that catch me there

Are the only ones worth chasing.

What are my words

To the blind, mute and deaf?

Illegible scrawling by a broken hand

Twisting and falling

Failing to realign the sailor off-course.

What are lines to mountains

When shapes and grooves

Bend and snake their way

With rough mannerisms

And heavy tongues?

What are songs to the valleys

Whose melodies ring triumphant

And the wind recalls nary a note,

Its stanzas superior to man?

What are feelings to the ocean

Wide, deep and wise

Untainted by regret?

What is love

To the willow by the lake

Whose hair dips low?

What is hate

To the moss underneath?

These I ponder as I lie awake

Yet I still write…

For what?

To live, not merely survive.

Your smile shatters my thoughts

Sending shards of bitterness,

Brittle traces of cognition

Conditioned to your grace.

Your laughter shakes my soul,

Dislodged logic careening

Scattering upon the floor

Plans and designs unmet.

Like fragments of light

Fracturing upon your hair

Lines of color, hue and depth

Reflect unborn words.

Still life portraits of our days

Hang in solemn places

Secluded and unjustly set,

Ashes mingled with acrylic.

Textured phrases pass our lips

Brushing crimson on pale faces

Alive with shades of warmth

Gently across a perfect canvas.

Traces of your heart stain your hands

Shadows of your creations

Dotted like constellations unseen,

Otherworldly beautiful chaos.

A ruffled feather in the wind

Tossed in airy waves

Churned by notions of grandeur

Such is the beginnings of love.

Clouded eyes reflect illusions

Where personalities are lost

In representations of perception

Pantomime performances

By clowns with broken limbs

Signing a language they don’t know

Or will ever try to understand.

When you say “I love you,”

To whom are you speaking?

The man or the vision

The woman or the dream

The human

Or the fantasy

Designed to pleasure the creator?

Can you truly believe

That your snapshot can portray

The billion words and thoughts

That dot the constellations

That guide their every day?

Can you call this love?

Some do.

We tilt on axises undescribed

By the fictions of our youth

Shaded from the harsh glares

Of misrepresentation,

A slap across the face of our forefathers

Seen through glasses shattered

By years of tyranny and supplication

Denied.

We spin like tops without a table

Unstable motion compromised by hate,

Blindness conjured through misinformation

And the passive acceptance of the mob

Majority ruled by iron clad robes

Trying to bleach the masses

Like diversity is filth instead of beauty

Defined.

War erupts on assumptions based in fiction

Friction set in motion by forces moved by

Riches of the land before their people

Nations reduced to GNPs and ashes

Statistics grayed out in time

Crumbling in the winds of lies

Designed.

A train leaves Detroit at 6:15;

How long does it take

To begin to realize

You’re going the wrong way?

Bridges pass by in blurs

Hazy representations

Lines of forms fragmented,

Faulty transcriptions of the mind.

The whistle blows

As stacks of steam obscure

Innocence stained by dark coal,

And spots on a white sky.

Murmurs fade as darkness falls

And eyes begin to rest

Shadows fade to blackness,

Peace.

At dawn’s light,

Journey’s end

Trails to a stop;

But have you really moved?

A glance takes in the changes,

A rural town for the city

Grass and trees for concrete mountains

Green and yellow for red and gray.

Footsteps seem softer here,

But not quite…

Determination’s lost somehow,

Yet, there is purpose.

Morning is bustling still,

But in a merry sort of way,

Full of light and humor

More greetings than scorn.

It seems a dream in waking,

An impression of a thought

Etched, dyed and pressed

Into your eyes.

Yet, no illusion is present

But the one in your heart,

Bourne of grief and fear

Of woe and past lives.

Past lies entangled

Like lines of crimson peppermint

Bloching the ivory face

Of time.

Bury your secrets

Like brittle coffins,

Misshapen representations

Containing remnants of past lives

Decomposing fibers disconnecting

Shedding splinters and dust.

Loosely held convictions

Scrapping the sides of your grave

Crumble like pastries

Poisoned with promises unrequited

Fractures obscene and unsaid

Shifting blame and purpose.

Tilted perspective lines the inner sanctum

Comforting the frigid corpse

Lips blue with the touch of hesitation

Alight with the echoes of all undone

Pieces of cloth encircle madness

Expressing anger and remorse. 

Shards of glass protect the sleeping

Light engulfed in recompense

Shafts of shade lull the weakened

Pages fading into sand.

Colors drip like raindrops

Casting shadows of thoughts

Intertwined like branches of the mind

Scratching traces of implications

Surrounding statements of vindication

Upon walls like symphonies–

Unorchestrated

Left as strings of sounds unheard

Specks of light and celebration

Shattered and reflected education

Mismanaged and regurgitated

Like blurred lines upon paper,

Soggy with the drops of raining colors

Melting into reflections we never were

Threading and constructing

Thoughts we never had

On walls of symphonies unrelenting

Mimicking our suffering cries

Flooding over with determination

To express that we cannot fathom

Our very selves etched like figures

In clay softer than our tongues

Replies that never were

And never will be

Without our hands,

Our voices,

And our wrongs. 

It was the dead of winter and

In the quiet of the night we said “Hello.”

I’ve spent ten years writing words,

Streaks of everlasting color

Tracing fingers on the walls I’ve built within.

Well it’s been Hell and I’ve no others to begin.

So, keep my windows shut,

For the breeze is blowing in

And I cannot begin

To tell the others of Hell that is Alone.

Streaks of everlasting color

Dried and cracked and sprained from within.

Walls of fingers tracing passages untouched

Ten years of words built up and lost

In the quiet night we said “Hello.”

Simple words in the dead of winter,

Snow falling at our passing

Melting away with the days we once had.