The boy who cried gently to the wolf.

You can sense it you know,

yourself shutting down—again

with the change of scenery, again

with the change of heart.

It’s like trying to stop a freight train

running yourself empty, till

all there is is but to explode.

It’s a very empty place to be living.

It’s a very empty place to be born.

It’s a beautiful fall day, though, isn’t it?

Isn’t it beautiful, this

in depth exhibition of yourself—

without the guts, with all the answers

and nothing all that good say.

Again, another Fall. 2020

With all stones cast

With all stones cast

There’s a pot still boiling

And a kettle left black

There’s a house still standing

With thinly cracked glass

There’s a kink in the line

With a reel still intact

There’s a spell in the ether

Waiting to be cast

With all stones thrown

There’s a hole full of flesh

There’s a crack in the arrow

There’s an angry protest

Each body a story, color, and time

Each arrow head sharpened, pristine, and divine

Each voice becomes voiceless, estranged, and unkind

With all stones turned

There lies not a soul

The truth is but squalor

Results are annulled

In a garden of daisies

Rest youthful and old

A graveyard of rubble

for silver and gold?

Another On Depression. (written some time ago) Or something like that.

It doesn’t feel like a weight
or an isolated incident.

It’s more like a cloudy headed hangover.

The mind knows what it needs
but the body refuses to cooperate.

It’s like sitting with a good book
for hours, no wiser in the end.

Or driving aimlessly
with no set destination.

It doesn’t feel like anything,
really.

Just a relative constant
that comes and stays.

Like an uninvited guest – talkative –
with nothing good to say, whom

upon arrival you wish they would go
but on departure, a part of you wishes they’d stay.

It’s nobodies goal to be addicted,
is it?

It doesn’t feel like anything,
really.

Or something like that.