On Allegory

Woken by my own

untamed restlessness.

Again. I feel like

stirring from stifling

comfort and falling

to the fields for a

breath of the brisk dark.

The air is stale,

comparable to the

sound of someone

cracking their worn

knuckles in the

early hours.

The clouds hide with the

Sun's heat, and the world

hides with it. The folk

who can't conceive the

wonders of the darkness

will never be calm.

The bright dawn rays

usher in all

manner of life,

conflict and most

grim battles fought

by those who hate

the quiet cold.

I am selfish,

then, for I hope

that I can keep

the night closest.

In total awe,

I behold peace.

[E = MC2] =

Flying through the sea of blues
we sing a soothing tune we always once knew...

Drifting by the sky collides
to die is why we fly abiding all, but why?

Roughened stones, set its own home
of affixiated, castrated bones

Dare we stare, fairly aware of scum
and rare treasure paired with everywhere?

Waking, taking, making tired kings start thinking,
scheming, deeming richer dreamings almost seemlessly

Creation through persevation, destruction
and recreation makes for a demonstration

Loud sounds surround the underground
as stirring damned abound, are wound around

Rapture, captured, there's no fractured ending after all?

Flying through the sea of blues
we sing a soothing tune we always once knew...

What is in there, and everywhere?

Going forward, we crave glancing to the reverse,
for whatever purpose, made diverse
by our own mistakes, regrets and choices.
Yet we can still recall nothing but events and voices.

So, where are we then, when we realize
a powerful truth that substantiates all as lies;
the voices and sounds masked everything
that made it all worthwhile and everlasting?

In all of us are entire universes, immense planes,
yet to be set foot upon (though this may not be any
necessity, for the mind is elaborate, and, perhaps,
may not be viewed by any but your own timely lapse).

Even if caution should be taken in our actions,
many things in life are meant to be turned by a thin blind.
Like the setting sun, or perhaps a grand hallucination,
they are best left for our eyes rather than the mind.

I hear her still

When I hear your voice echo across the sea,
I wonder if you can remember what it was like to be.
I miss your prescence, and I wish that it'd been me,
when I hear your voice echo across the sea.

When we hear your laughter, your glowing, grinning face
was the firs thing that came to mind. You all know how we place
you in the depths of our beliefs, just to see charming grace,
when we hear your laughter, your glowing, grinning face.

When your time had almost come, I wish I could have known,
just a little bit more about you. Where would you have gone?
Would you have worn the world about your neck, and never feel alone?
When your time had almost come, I wish I could have known.

When I hear your laughter through the walls,
I'll pray it's no dream. Because we all
miss you so much, and your spirit shall never fall.

I'll know a great deal of happiness once more,
When I hear your laughter through the walls.



Dedicated to Molly Kathleen Finn, a Free Spirit forever

1986-2006

Hiding from the painted eggs

I've burdened a heavy weight upon my shoulders,
like the great Atlas of myth, bearing the entire globe.
But where did his feet rest then? What were
his thoughts and feelings, was he simply a photophobe?

We always seem to be hiding all the wrong things.
In older days, we hid eachother in our backyards,
in silent wait for the predator to tire. In time, we grew our wings,
which would lead to us hiding in the back of the car.

Perhaps an innocently painted shell, sometimes out of season?
Where are the eggs, maybe we should look harder?
But whatever is the moral? How does this hold any reason?
Well hell, who wants to know? Perhaps they're in the water.

There's no need to hide the bad times. Maybe your ideal
life is unbalanced by reality, but we are not hiding from you.
Don't go shy of what could just be a little white lie. Feel
comfort in the thought of a loved one who will always stay true.

Blind pursuit

No more sleep for the restless, nevermind the anxious.
Not in unlikely terms of solace, mind you, just the place
that which we seek is naught. After all we were taught,
we are all so blind to our impure ammoral beliefs.

Rewind.

Nostalgic of the good old days, where the time would sway
all in its way. Drifting wearily through our souls mysteriously,
unconsciously, awareness caught red-handed, but only later repremanded.

These are all memories. They make no difference here.
This message yet made deaf to ear.
Not worthless, but in the end, simply made to give us the moment.

Then you wake from this sleep.
So deep you could swear your eyes never fluttered once.
But here you are, minutes, hours, days, from the blind voyage of yesterday.

But you'll never know how long.

But even knowing won't matter.

What is happiness? Is it supposed to have our precious answers?
All laid out in spades? As if no other way was made?

In case nothing happens

Observing the clouds float by, blocking the sky,
like a moat, massive, barring the way, slightly passive.
I ponder how the passing of all encompassing
can bare all the plight, growing higher day and night.

White picket fences and coke, what an awful slew of jokes.
"Our country tis of thee?" No such thing as a land of liberty.
We are always assured we will see everything cured,
as life of all sorts and races disappear without any traces.

Some of it is actually seen by those with means,
yet where is the motive that we need to be successive?
Surely we've heard of goodwill towards all men and Earth.
So why wait for oppurtunity to come, stop this insanity!

For the good of humanity! Let not just your voice be heard,
but the voices of thousands, millions, billions to be sure!
We're all growing steadily irrational waiting for change.
The terms different and deranged will someday be estranged!

Let's make some sort of report, something they can listen to,
and hopefully one day, the drawbridge will fall for you.