Phone Calls

Remember when I called you
Stuttered every breath
Holding tightly to the phone
Tangled up in emotion

And

Bad connections

As I listened to you breathing
Panting on the other line
I found my thoughts wandering

To another place, another time.

There is a Thunder in His Wake

The sky, in it's blacken fury
Rips in shards of light

Hiding

Down among the weeds
Are the men who quiver and shake

Hoping

That the beautiful God
Would leave them to their peace

Oh what a fury!

Their voices cry
The tremors shake their voice
And the tears are slowly stirring

Yet the only call from that lonely God
Is the crack from the sky
And the world below is illuminated again

Oh what fury!

Does that lightning crash
Clashing with the trees down below
Setting fire to the world around
And as the men, small as ants run

Out through the clouds appears the sun.

A Rainy Evening.

The rain, it poured in droves
And its sound comforting to old ears
It’s gentle tapping against the glass
Calmed the man as he waited for the storms to pass
When the world could be green again

His form was a silhouette upon the window
Only broken by the spidery cracks on the pane
A fleshless, shadowy figure, withered and decrepit
Smoke billowed behind, in the fight to stave
Off the biting cold, with its empty hunger

The man, he sits alone
And the thought is comforting to an old soul
His gentle rocking against the floor
Calmed the man as he waited for life to pass
When the world would be new again.

The Old Man Sits...

The old man sits,
The chair it creaks
As he rocks away the years

Memories pervade,
Seeking understanding, and he falls
Under nostalgia's soft spell

"Remember the old days..."
He speaks to no one
"When we were younger..."
He muses to silence

With a teary sigh
The old man has realized
Nostalgia is no place to hide
And still, the years
They slowly fly by.

Truth.

I am never content
The world it spins
And the people they
Swim in this fishbowl existence

Yet constantly I question,
Searching for forgiveness
Faith, truth, repentance
These words torment,
With their promise of peace

A stronger person than I
Would let the world fly on by
Yet mystery has conquered me
And I can never see peace
Until the truth has found me.

Nights and Poetry

Grey, murky thick sky surrounds my being
In this frosted air I drive
Searing through the haze, trying to awaken
My listless bloodshot eyes.

The dark it still creeps ahead
As the sun begins it's climb behind
I feel like I'm slowly heading
For that field of dying light

I cannot hault the flow of time
And instead I reveal in it's passing
Living through the ebbs and flows
Grasping fourth for hidden meaning
Finding poetry in every word I speak
And every word I mean with such heavy weight.

My words follow no form
Just a series of excrements
That are meant to show my brilliance
But only show the lack.
This is my poetry.

Impulse.

Impulse triggers impulse
And the mind begins to wake
The sparks that set my brain to work
Are firing.

Sensory inputs tell me what I see
And the fractured image upturned
Is reversed so it makes sense to me

Memories, stories set in faulty images
Play on repeat. Never ceasing, never sleep.
My mornings are this routine.
And these impulses are firing.