The threads of the future streaks to the horizon of forgotten fate, seeing this before the sun stimulates the imagination of the past of tomorrow. Will the darkness forget the light altogether? Or is the dust of yesterday before the mind only. A man told me a riddle today, but it was forgotten on the trivial speech of the clown like children that roam the desert looking for scraps of buzzards. Cold desolate matter emanating from the ground of breaking hearts, slowly seeping into the gashes of the mind. Did you say to me the things of the past, or is my hearing slightly disrupted? I think not on the negative aspects of life without reason, for they are abundant and imprint themselves into the soul as daggers. Young child so soft, but hardened by the life of strangers, is this the fate of all, or just the lonel
y bagabon under the briges? " I care for you' they say, but then proceed to ingest the inside of the emotions. Soft spoken words appease my soul, they are forgotten though by the incandescent memories of the pain that follows them. What does the poet speak? Or do his words remain hidden as they should, for if they where truly understood many would hunt him, to kill him, for revealing the fermented poison that bubbles forth from them. Of course the journey is short, and nothing really matters in the end. For what do we really own, or posses, or care for, but nothing. It is all lost on confusions. So I say what I feel, and still the prison cell awaits me. Honesty is only as important as the one in which you are talking too. This of course is fallacy, for with some honesty is the only importance. I wait for my sentencing with dullness in heart, for I have been on trail before, and have always been found quilty by one that does not fully see me. Oh the unjust trails that lay before us all, and to what end do they claim us, only as far as it is convenient to them, for themselves have looked into the mirror of self revealing with shame and loathing, only to see the self that they truly know and fear to realize.
y bagabon under the briges? " I care for you' they say, but then proceed to ingest the inside of the emotions. Soft spoken words appease my soul, they are forgotten though by the incandescent memories of the pain that follows them. What does the poet speak? Or do his words remain hidden as they should, for if they where truly understood many would hunt him, to kill him, for revealing the fermented poison that bubbles forth from them. Of course the journey is short, and nothing really matters in the end. For what do we really own, or posses, or care for, but nothing. It is all lost on confusions. So I say what I feel, and still the prison cell awaits me. Honesty is only as important as the one in which you are talking too. This of course is fallacy, for with some honesty is the only importance. I wait for my sentencing with dullness in heart, for I have been on trail before, and have always been found quilty by one that does not fully see me. Oh the unjust trails that lay before us all, and to what end do they claim us, only as far as it is convenient to them, for themselves have looked into the mirror of self revealing with shame and loathing, only to see the self that they truly know and fear to realize.
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