“The man who excuses himself, accuses himself.” -Unknowm
Morning, evening, noon and night,
evil walks within our sight.
With winged hate and hollow eyes,
it walks on earth and soars thru skies.
Awake, asleep, somewhere in between,
a watchful eye perceices all unseen.
Sword held high, platinum armor glinting,
staunchly held against the pox evil brings.
The clash begins, our hero stumbles,
his high minded ideals humbled.
His sword has dropped, he falls to one knee,
evil looks one with unbounded glee.
Yet out hero has only faltered, not fallen,
evil sees our hero’s resolve, crestfallen.
Sword raised and chin held high,
the hero rushes in, his destiny nigh.
Warm bodies, useless in their skills,
hired en masse, fired en masse.
Helping those incapable of
Half those employed are saints,
half because no one else will take them.
In an industry made to help
the most vulnerable,
an appalling lack of standards permeates.
What can be done?
People are needed, and few want to come.
Do we take the job ourselves,
and struggle with a caustic combo
of hard work and useless compatriots?
Or do we bemoan the injustice,
and do what is best for us?
Neither is an obvious choice.
One noble in it’s service,
one practical in it’s self-service.
Is it better to help others
at the sacrifice of ourselves,
at the sacrifice of others?
How do we find the balance?
March, wandering in from the shortness of
Will it allow comfort and peace in
wanderings and musings,
or punish with the indiscriminacy
of a blustery January?
Lions and lambs,
old truisms repeated by
mothers and grandmothers alike.
Peace and all good
in the upcoming roar of March
“It’s not an endlessly expanding list of rights – the ‘right’ to education, the ‘right’ to health care, the ‘right’ to food and housing. That’s not freedom, that’s dependency. Those aren’t right, those are the rations of slavery – hay and a barn for human cattle.” –P. J O’Rourke
swiping left and right,
texting meaningless words.
one night stands and
January sun melting
icy flows from the roof,
teasing of warmer March.
sun glinting off tin rooves,
waiting to be felt by
children and elderly alike.
Sun, cold and melted snow a gift.
Ashen hearts and Blackened hands, Pickled beliefs and Sour love, Crooked toes and Bent backs, Tarnished lies and Bloody truths. Raucous laughs and Calloused knuckles, Simple honesty and Naieve trust, Proud shoulders and Unblinking gazes, Shrewd generosity and Accurate distaste.
Awake and Empty, looking at a Purple Sky, filled with Orange Cream Clouds and Ebony Faces. touching the Brittle Grass, Flowers shattering with a Breath. standing, sitting, collapsing, the Purple Sky whizzing overhead. the White Sun blazes, Blistering Ice upon Crowned Heads, we must escape the Clear Cold, so grab the Reins of the Faceted Steeds. Galloping until the White Sun crumbles into a Pulsating Moon. the Mounts, exhausted, crumble - their Remains floating to join the Stars. our Transportation, crumbled and gone, now left with only the Moon and Stars. Where do we go now? the Moon now sets, yet the Sun does not show. the Sky melts into the Land, no Light left 'cept the Lumination of the Eyes. a Ripple, a Shimmer and a Blast, the Darkness vibrating with Bass Sound without origin, overflowing with Purpose.
It spilled out, from one horizon to another, and torched the blanketed mountains, with nothing left but a single tree. The tree stood alone, standing against the nothingness, eons passing slowly, until the tree turned to stone. One stone tree, in a courtyard of thought, with the witness of me, and an ability to do naught. What then, is the purpose? A stone tree, alone with one witness, with the end approaching brusquely.