What You Dream OfTell me what you dream of
what you grasp for in you sleep
what you say to store at night
under individual watchful up.
Speak to me your restful vigil
as you flutter silent thoughts
sing to me the songs they sing.
metered out by clocks.
Show me down your slumber's road
and tell me what you see
discover me each step you take.
I will follow were you lead.
Spin for me a winter's tale
made from spider's finest web.
I'll use it then to shroud us both
against reality's harshest blows.
Read to me, the worst of your mind
shower me in words of turn of phrase
bathe me in soliloquy
let me feel your slumber's haze.
Let me in to the museum of your thoughts
let me hold the brittle cloud
of all you ever felt
I shan't drop or break it, but I shall make you proud
War of WordsI tire of the human-baiting
necks strung up from trees.
I sick of razor whispers, viper tongues
stealing more than thieves.
The cries for blood disturb my sleep
from the growling dogs of war
The tramps and shouts of warriors
that beckon at my door.
THe land mine text
and trip wire phrase
lies prone to every passing ear
though all it sets a-blaze.
A war of words, a battle of mouths
has yet to draw out blood
but voices have a deadlier blast
than a shotgun ever could
The Self Made GodI will not kneel
'afore the self made god
I will be standing in their presence
your righteous flame lies not within
but lights a candle of putrescence.
The self made god in branded glory
and sells it piece by piece.
But I see the price tag on your soul
and your dignity's for lease.
I will not bow
'afore the self made god
on your likeness set in gold.
When upon it;s gilded hand
is the blood of brothers sold.
You're a monster with crown and sceptre
with rings upon your claws
when your subjects kiss your feet,
you kick and name them slobs.
I shan't swear fealty.
I refuse to scrape and bend.
To the gods that I create
I have no loyalty.
I bite my thumbs at gods I build
and take pleasure in their end.
I will not bow to the god I invented
I will not kneel to you
Speaking to the WorldIn talking to the mountain tops
I learned the want of man.
It displeases stormy peaks
the blood upon the sand
When I whispered to the forest, thick
they answered back a cry;
they fear the sharpness of my kind
as man cuts the forest dry.
I questioned the rivers, lakes and seas
and I did hear them weep;
their streams are sick, and ponds do shrivel
that makes her old bones weak.
I gazed upon the sky of blue
and a mother in despair;
a child in her aged arms
with citizens that do not care
Judgement From the GodsThere are roads yet untaken
where dark creatures dwell
who squat in deep caves
beyond the reach of man's spell.
They salt the bones of the king
with the flesh of the paupers.
They use moons to watch us
in our desolate homes
till they know each name
as intimate skin.
They turn as they chant
each crime and each sin.
This is their reason
how they call themselves gods.
They punish the weak
in the name of The Cause.
They've scratched out their eyes
so they don't have to see.
They cover their mouths
so they can't answer their deeds.
But ears are left clear
so they may hear the faint echo
of the blood they have spilled
in the judgement bellow
Hand in HandAn interlace of hands
across the endless divide
bring a foreign smile to a face
who thought their lips had died.
One hand in another
a like in kind but not in thought
as both hold different memories
of what each finger's cupped.
Hands hold life and death
in the cradle of a palm
turning sickness into health
and pulls the crawling soldier on.
Nails can claw their way to blood
and grips destruction, hewn.
But for now, they hold each other
for every hand has room
to hold another close to one,
to save it's owner from itself
though the mind might not comprehend
the turning, twisting finger shelf
on which pulse depends