Category: Writing

I had to travel very close to the end to see I am still viable.
What was in question has been answered, for the moment.
What was in question was simple and innate.
The answers just as simple and innately dangerous.
I have seen my very real fears subside through a simple show of interest.

The path, like that of Dante.
The reprieve, like that of a recent parolee.
The power, like that of sunshine.
The guilt, like that of too much wine.

It was not the prize, but the confirmation of potential.
It was not the attainment, but the seeking.
It was not the right, but the threat of wrong.
It was not the overt realization, but the subtle reckoning.

Reasons for a sinner’s words, a sinner’s way, a short walk on a burning pier.
Disaster averted by a well timed exit.
The absurdity of a long ago stated phrase to Mr. Young,
“I never make universal statements”…

I’ve seen a man too lame to stand.
A strong man to weak to take my hand.
Bridges, boxes, and dogs,
dodging, sleeping and grinding the cogs.

I’ve seen the hair to fucked to comb,
I’ve seen the man, talking alone.
Carts, crates, and water,
Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters.

This man, arms to the sun
This man, no name, no gun.
This man, he’s the prophet’s voice, make the choice,
This man, making the best of misery.

What have I done, how far he’s come?
Sell me something, before the light is done.
Oranges, flowers, and beans,
Selling, begging and paid to bleed.

Where has he gone this man I know.
First and last time I’ve see his show.
Bullets, bats, and knives,
Running, hiding, saving no lives.

That man, iconic eyes to the ground.
That man, ironic smiles all around.
That man, he’s the martyr’s muse, forced to choose,
That man, making the best of daylight’s love.