THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOWMy god let me not think on her now!
Not after these past twenty years.
Torment and torture from so long ago,
my mind could not bear it again...
I was just eleven then, just a young boy,
and every morning at 4 am
I walked the sidewalks throwing newspapers;
in the dark of early morning...
One house had a beautiful bay window,
decorated with lace curtains;
at its center I saw a rocking chair,
sitting it it was a woman...
I could see she was old by her grey hair.
She waved at me, and I would wave back,
smiling I would continue on my way;
and so this went on for many weeks...
There was one morning when she did not wave,
but motioned for me to come closer.
Hesitant I drew nearer to the window,
I was frozen by what I saw...
Her skin was the color of ashen grey,
with eyes devoid of any life.
I could see her struggling to move her lips,
she pressed her hand against the window...
Her mouth opened to reveal rotted teeth;
my eyes firmly fixed upon hers.
Slowly my arm raised up and our hands met,
BrokenI lay down my heart,
I begin to pray,
My heartstring lay.
The reds now grey,
On this unholy day,
Your hands are stained,
My heart is framed.
Encased in glass,
Lost all that lasts
Where dead men groan.
A deep dark home,
Of skin and bone,
A deep dark hole,
For a broken soul.
Mend the heart,
If you dare try,
But tear it apart,
Then be prepared to die.
In the end,
It doesn't matter.
Murdered HeartAs you feel the steel on skin,
As you feel the blood within,
As you fall into the dark,
As you hear the demons hark.
Body rotting to the bone,
Slowly rotting to the soul,
Lay there in blood stained grass,
Surrounded by the broken glass.
Reflection gleaming from all around,
Wife on-looking with a frown,
You hear her cry,
You hear her scream,
Then your mind begins to drown.
So let your breath slowly go,
Feel the heavy ungodly throes,
As you're pulled by the undertow,
As you succumb to the flow.
Scratch and claw,
Push and scream,
It means nothing,
At a murder scene.
Lay and die,
Drift and dream,
Hear the cries,
Dead at the seams.
THE MIRROR LIES (AN ACROSTIC)Trying hard to be beautiful
Hoping to somehow fit in
Make-up, curling irons, and clothes
It turns us into something else
Roses painted to be washed clean
Remnants of what we wish to be
Ordinary is never good enough
Resplendence never comes for free!
Look in the mirror, what do you see
Inner beauty is never there
Eyes are not made to look upon it
So goes the mirror, so goes the soul…
A Warm Place II
Where am I?
Is this real?
I feel cold.
It's so quiet.
So this is what it's like,
To fade from existence,
To be eternally lost.
It's so dark,
It's so lonely.
I feel so tired,
I feel so sad, sadder than before.
I wish I could return, but I know I can't.
I can feel myself,
And memories of my life,
Slip into the hollow darkness around me.
THE DRIFTERThe darkest blue had caught his eye,
limitless across the sky;
still he walked the quiet streets,
blackened shadows kissed his feet.
A drifter had he been, till now,
for peace his mind would not allow;
tears began to flow from he,
this man who faces destiny.
No wind to cool his burning face,
his sleeping heart began to race;
'City Limits’ read the sign,
walking on, he crossed the line.
The dead were scattered all around,
and from the city came no sound;
that ball of fire in the sky,
all but he had seemed to die.
His family he had hoped to find,
reverence crept into his mind;
finally now his search would end,
standing still as was the wind.
The house was quiet, still as night,
he used a lantern as his light;
his eyes now seeing what he dread,
for there he found his family dead.
T’was here the drifter met his fate,
with no more need to contemplate;
the pistol fired, the drifter fell,
to only see another hell.
Now the sky was red with blood,
Even we will be savedWe turn our eyes away
As blackness fades to grey
We become what they told us to fear
Slaves of our own minds
Never close never near
We climb into our holes
And make ourselves at home
Open books with so many torn out pages
Walking through fire
Thirsting for truth
In another night of sin
We take on yet another fight
Impossible to win
We are at war inside
White flags in our hands
But hatred paints them bullet black
So we turn our eyes away
On our knees to wash our faces
Once again we pray
That one day even we will be saved
What a terrible thingSometimes life is painful,
not for a discernible reason.
Not for a route to something better
or a perversive remedy
for a wound long forgotten.
Sometimes we drown in it,
in the not yet,
the not quite,
the not at all.
Sometimes even our eyelashes
are too heavy,
and keeping our eyes open enough
to see the truth is asking too much,
and other times?
Other times the truth is
the bacteria binding in your blood
beneath your skin
- it's inside -
and it knows how to feed off of you.
it wriggles until at last -
it lets its forceful pair of hands
slip tenderly under your ribcage
to compress -
down on your lungs
until they are flat
and stick to themselves,
and leave you gasping;
oh, oh the truth.
What a terrible thing!