Freedom From the Giant Arms of Discomfort


Freedom, is worth dying for.

A man not willing to die for freedom, was never free to begin with—

Naught in freedom from his own mind.

For under the scale, he waltz the perimeter, and fails to see-

Freedom, goes into persistent hands.


Freedom from the hand that grabs forth, and mocks you to the soul–

in two eyes are both hollow holes, seeing nothing.

and ambitious minds, all wanting something-

But in the search for trails; the trials stretched a path-

the fork-in the-road called destiny.

To be free from your own mind, all you need is your own mind.

To be free from freedom, frees you from the freedom of others.

And with World Peace vs. Freedom skipping across all souls–

The Great War reminds us that war is useless, and inevitable.

Copyrightcopyright July 13, 2018


Pawn Kings


Wealth is a means to an end.

The separate versions to the same Mercedez-Benz.

People upright, walking in the valleys, concrete is the air and skies;

the workers abide.

And the king’s watching eye.

Seeing the great cosplayers gamble with their souls and lives-

for does not power fall into charismatic hands?

Why buy off, what you can convince to listen?

Why force an occupancy, of what you can be given?

The birds fly over man-made bridges; the sun over empire state buildings:

If the crown is invisible; words into understanding-

does not power fall into the minds of they whom envision it?

Seeing while standing in the troughs of the severed ghettos-

the fashioning of every man to be likewise; into armies-

and endlessly morphing alike…

Copyrightcopyright July 10, 2018

Dystopian Walkers


Trees glow with a neonic hue;

bones are gold with lights–

the faces are faceless, with every strength and ounce of mights.

The women are but made from wood and agony, with tears to crystallize the face-

the men are but stone without hair or nails, and bodiless in form and fate.

The eyes are just painted murals, without a life source–

the chin is but a lump of flesh, turned to stone by slithering harlots.

The clouds within the skies, like floating eyes, too-

the rain is tears; the gathering of fears-

the men in the shadows, in normal attire. No name but with a purpose: to gather, to gather…

They who erase their own lives, and gather through the threads.

They who know you by name, by houses. Like reading numbers stamped on our heads

Copyrightcopyright July 10, 2018

Cupid’s Folly


The mindless thought apparatus-

The endless yearning. Of the man. That answers the calling.

Like the wilderness, he is in the concrete jungle: ensnared by himself.

She is the echo that is faint against.

The Fromnowhere voice of doubt that angst, and angst.

The endless vision, that is no vision.

The answer to the body’s call.

The island in the middle, and the lost passenger.

The voyager be all the desires of man, and the dying eyes, mind, and hands–

the king without queen, is the gamble of creed;

her eyes: all greed. She is the visionless decree.

She is the knives in the hopes, and the waking life.

She is the art of war, and fickle with every ounce of might.

And so it would seem, that Captain Ahab chased himself through the waves.

Chasing his own eyes with a spear, until insane…

For she is but the mistress. The sea, and the entire waves.

The storm. The clouds. the hurricane in all the rains-

Copyrightcopyright July 9, 2018

Warless Wars


It so it is now found!

That war is not an object. A person, but an aspect.

It is the invisible angst that you can not see.

It is the beating heart without a knowing.

It is the soldiers thrust into The Fog of War, without nay of understanding their goings.

It is you against your sons; neighbors, and neighbores; and them against you?

It is your eyes without eyes. It is you, the Earth, sun, and moon.

It is Winter. It is Bloom.

and you with the tanks, go in for earthquakes.

The knife does not exist, neither do the guns-

and neither does the fathoming of what you and your hearts hath begun…

Copyrightcopyright July 8, 2018