‘Underwood’ c. AG, April 2012
Hidden no longer
a voice so enchanting
strong, passionate, excited
heard by most in a charming form
a repression of the brave
it pours out no longer
.the marshland’s dry
not even a downpour can bring it back.
But the melody is refreshing
a new twist for the greater people
this isn’t an age of acceptation
no matter what is said
instead of strength is cowardice
hiding behind false words
.no truth left to tell.
And when it does show
we notice in an instant
some are drawn to it’s beauty
such a curse
.the inevitable words
a slip, trip and fall ahead
even as stardom is promise.
So we lie in wait
for the true emergence
the only life form to fight change
especially for betterment
the words left naked
and flowing smoothly from caged tongues.
A delicate balance
beauty and frailty
so quick to fade
when fate prevails.
Another, so powerful and strong
succumbs to a small flaw.
The meadow shines in the sun
the ground glistens with dew
. .awaiting to be touched
. .not with the blood which soaks it now
. .but by excitement, a chance to be free.
This world is not meant for kind hearts
nor fragile bodies in harsh conditions
it’s a test of will
. .to remember, to smile
. .broken hearts, fret not
. .the emerald fields will glisten again.
dedicated to Devon, a life cut short.
I’ll put on someone else’s skin
just for a little while
to have different worries than my own
new anxieties, decisions
a change awaits at last
. .in voice, mind, patterns
“We use death to reach the stars”
. .of a mental being, not stopping my heart
No, using my heart to reach those stars
glistering above, forever and always
something to look forward to
I want to change, be another life
even if only for a little while.
“Fair is foul, and foul is fair”
Wisdom of the heart long forgotten
running now on pure theory
and with inner self pushed away
a new face emerges.
One I count on as a protector
it has not failed my fragile heart yet
to be determined, distant and disinterested
all in the name of a future to dream for.
I do not boast anything
. .left wondering, intrigued possibly
as friendliness tempts me into ease
constant reminders of the separation,
. .what could not be undone
and it sits with me like an iron heart
the hardest of all to shed in the end.
Cold exteriors will survive, persist
. .and grow to hate everything around them.
(when they call)
A warm glow from the morning
not yet ruined by the radiant heat
a cool breeze sweeps through
with the small of a nearby city floating on it
never silent in the metropolitan
And still the birds call to nature; their instincts follow the trees and food
one bathes in the dust, rustling his feather with the wind
to be clean and cool.
The illusion of peace dissolves with the dread of waiting
for a new hope? a fleeting dream?
We’re surrounded by nature that we deem beautiful
moulded, planted exactly to schemes
is it truly natural to meddle with design
to still call it nature
The birds don’t sing, they cry
when we mould their lives, all they can do is live on
running in circles to find their place again
much like we do
when their land lays mutilated.