And, Dale, like, the road, we knew, so well,
you tried, to drag me, down to Hell,
with, your nose, so wet, unwell.
A white cat’s collar, rings it’s bell.

I climbed, the banks, of, the Glen,
without a thought, a hope, or, ken,
up, the paper-sharp, clinging, edges,
without, a purpose, a plan, or, pen.

And, Dale, you could, always, tell your lies,
without a mouth, you, still, have eyes.
They seldom blinked, at other’s cries,
they never saw, your glassed demise.

I ran, with every notion, of escape,
knees and elbows, grazed and scraped.
The lined and needled hedges,
scored me, for my sake.

And, Dale, you think you know so much,
but, you have, only, read, one book.
The book, that answered, your bad luck.
The questions mount, and, you’re mistook.

Do hypocrites, make sense, of words?
Can, a shark, out-fly, a bird?
Can, the past, out-swim, the dredges?
The answer you hate, is, all, I heard.

And, Dale, can, you turn, water, into wine?
Create, signs and wonders, all, of the time?
Live, in, the House of God, sublime?
Or, are you, just, really, past your prime?

The bed, you made, is, crawling, with, your lies.
You, always, said, you’d rise, we’ll see, how high.
When, your final sleep, comes, to soften, all, of your edges.
And, the larvae, have, sniffed you, into flies.

© poormansdreams

To He who
hath taken
all of me
for a fool
let it be known
it’s for the birds
and that I shan’t
say much out loud
better yet
anything at all
because mouths
and souls
at a loss
have no need
to recoup
stolen words.

Your idle hands
ashame
even the dev-
ils that plague
your mind
and shallow
attention seeking
prayers
cannot save you
from the various
versions
of yourself.

When the clock
strikes infinity
the warmth
you feel will
not be from
your loved ones
but rather
cynically will be
from the burning
coals of suffering
that burn blacker
than your heart
and that you felt
were worthy
to place in the grasps
of those that gave
to you unconditionally.

Now they
scorch your feet
as you walk
the blackened plains
alone knowing
what you beseech
is an obsidian
desert palace
made of oily tears
left unweeped
and a blaze
of suffering’s coals
compiled with
charring hate
to make a throne.

I sincerely
hope you reign
for as long as
the desert dunes
reject the rain
and that your seat
of conceit
brings you comfort
with jet mirrors
that caress
and worship you
proudly and vain
as the sinking sand
is melted into glass
and blown
for you to view
consume and feel
the nothingness
of your empty soul
through it’s open pane.

© poormansdreams

We, lie, in the cafeteria, after, the infirmary,
like, the three fleeting feathers, of;
fought-for, freedom,
fought-for, fairness,
and, fought-for, future.
That, forcedly flew,
from, the open palm, of perjury.

The tarot cards, of today,
lie; torn, ill distribted and deathly,
like, unstitched mouths of prey,
under feet; broad, flat and hefty,
trampled upon, yet, with nothing, to say,
but, to whisper, nothingness, bereftly.

Each, feather, once belonged, ungot;
to, a plumage, of the three, winged-sisters,
The, long-feared, Mór-ríoghan, but, they, were,
brought down, with, modern missiles,
then, laid, on, a robust rotisserie of unrest,
when, at Yuletide, got mistaken, for turkeys,
whilst, they, were, plucked and primed, for the pot.

Our, final flight, has, lost it’s way,
darkness, lays eggs, for, four-and-twenty,
as, the clockwork hours, plummet, into grey,
the cockpit, lies, barren, lame and empty,
there’s, no; fiery bellies or dragons, left, to slay,
despite, eight, final words, from, the corpse, of, King Henry:

“…feel myself, I will advise upon the matter…”

We, are, now, Apathy, we feel, nothing, at all,
and, we, no longer, flutter, or, even, matter,
our will, can’t; advise us how to fall,
when, our three feathers, have, forcedly flown, then, scattered,
they, can’t, pluck us from the skies, or, cuckoo, or, even, caw,
as, we; descend, disembark, and, are, finally, splattered…

…alongside; pride, avarice and gall.

© poormansdreams

Life, will have, plentiful, ups and downs,
and, cause, your vessel, lasting,
scar-shaped, ugly, frowns,
made, for, your masking,
like, an inside-out clown,
appearing, without asking,
use, every, magic trick, around,
to, make, a scared present, a past thing.

A, declining, health,
where, inclining tumors, grew,
saw steep lengths, depths and breadths,
from, which, to jump, into, a sedentary pool,
at, the basis, a few words, sit, upon, a stool,
saying, “There’s a duty in drawing breath,
but, there, is beauty, renewed,
beginning, in, death.”

© poormansdreams

I used to give,
so, truly,
to, many,
undeserving hands.
But, their fingers,
bit, unruly,
a deathly,
gripping bite.
So fierce,
that, I could, never, understand.
The nail, poked,
so cruelly,
in, open wounds,
unmanned.
Fangs, tore flesh,
ripped, unduly,
with ferocious,
ripping might,
making, morsels,
of, a spirit, big, and, grand.

So, now, I guard,
my giving,
from, a watchtower,
in, the skies.
Protected, with prayers,
to, the benevolent unliving.
They’ve, no need,
for, sleep,
and, shine, essenced lights,
on, the unforgiving lies.
Their end, is, my
beginning.
Their misfortune,
is, my prize.
As, they remain,
forever, willing,
for, souls, and, se-
crets, to, keep.
Keeping, my keepsakes, close,
to, their chests, every, night.

© poormansdreams