We are motives for inspiration
Undiscovered in the looping record,
Milking the pen onto the open field,
We are creators amongst creation
Telling those who’d listen
A piece of truth, in the endless pitch,
Or fantasy, of hope falling to the ocean floor,
We are the minds of Insanity
Keeping watch at the gate,
The record keepers, for our Book
That each one of us contributes to,
Dive into the paper, pushing through words
Deleting the cycled story, keeping the integrity
Of who we are.
She is bound by her pain,
Struggling in the shadow of deceit
That spins the spools of chains
Crushing her, into herself,
She is bound, to the pain stalking her.
A soldier in the field,
Crunching through the charred greens
Of a world buried beneath the inferno,
The ashes of a home
Swim at the soldiers feet,
He bows down beneath the wind
To pick up a burnt childhood,
As dreams break away in pieces,
He carries what’s left to the burning tree
And just before he tosses it in,
An offspring of nature
Distracts the soldier from falling erosion,
Wings carry hope to the wounded soil.
I perch here by the stone
Doing my best to pull the words out,
With all my strength, I cannot,
Tongue lost in the echo of still wings,
Not even the sharp mockery of the black bird
Can be heard tapering down my empty halls,
All that is seen, is the abundance
Of a voided pitch, feeling out for a touch,
Too cold to lay here on my own
As the raft sinks down further along
The engulfing river, spilling into dismay,
When can I awake to find her in my arms again?
Please wake me.
How many of us truly have our sanity in tact?
Just another hitch in the road as it all shatters,
And you become, interesting.
What’s the point of laying on the row boat
Searching down the waters,
Recollection of a life tarnished.
What’s the point of crawling in the ground
Carving on the white walls,
Breathing in the fumes of poison.
Approach these gates and knock,
The louder the better
So that the crazies know,
You’re one of us.
Do you disguise in the crowd of freaks?
Hanging on the limb with the thorns
Begging for you below, dressing your corner.
Do you close the door at the knock of company?
Posing in the shadow of dread,
While they build out your home
Staining the cross you grip so close.