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Tuesday, October 6, 2009


Rusty lament through a weathered whistle.

A dark silhouette covers the waking hours
of the watchman.

Fathers make sons count stars on it,
sitting atop terraces.


Nameless, shameful.

Races, vengeful;
of being eaten within
by the monstrosity christened Fate.

These faces roam the street corners,
devoid of variety;
You wouldnt remember either if you
crossed one.

The watchman sees them totter,
watches them pile upon the gutters.


He now pauses and smiles,
for he has seen this down centuries.

Ageless, the Watchman made them walk;
right into the bowels of cursed fate
and Hoped.

Hoped that one day,
the faceless man would look up
and see the stars,
the ones his father showed him upon forgotten terraces.

But he doesnt.

The watchman shakes his head and walks back
into the first wisps of dawn.
For The New Day, has begun.

Hateful Past Midnight


Or rather, amazed.

We stared deep into the half mooned' eyes
counting stars, counting skies
counting raptures, laughs
and Lies.

A social exclamation declares
we are two souls
forged to be one.

The burning sun
beats upon desires
Passion's naked fire
chooses to play Shylock.

We held hands
played "the whisper".
Lovesick juveniles
out on a death spree.

Our eyes wounded,
stripped and strangled the soul.
The soul does not question.
It waits for the end.


The love is done.
The mush now bleeds dry
through half hearted gashes
on the wrist.

Why do I bleed
when I try to cut You away?
Why does guilt over remorse hold sway?

Within a day
Within a say
Within cupid's rotting clay.

The moment captures it.
And whats left behind,
is The Moment...
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