No good moves left
No discussions
Worth having
No more lunches
With the brilliant
Or the famous
Only the final steps
Of the last cold trail.
The endgame
Silence
There is silence
In my heart.
Not love
Not fear
Only silence.
A Pale Horse
They dance with the idea
it consumes them wholly
wrought from ancient fear
of what they thought was holy
The rich move them like pawns
and laugh at their red deeds
then a fearsome day soon dawns
and their anger makes us bleed
Lies and hunger and a sense
of loss and falling down
the talking heads talk nonsense
about their stolen crown
They follow blindly and with glee
they chant and curse and sing
they smash and kill and plea
for praise from a would-be king
The center holds for one last stand
the guardians beat back the horde
they will return as they had planned
to commit what some abhorred
Some bolder hand will hold their reins
the broken veil falls from our face
the death’s head move for sordid gains
a triumph of a darker grace
So thus our city on a hill
shining for those with lifted eyes
crumbles into rubble still
just a shambles in disguise
Convictions
I collect, the withered soul-husk said,
my grievances, peeves, and spleen.
Some people yet live, others are dead,
but my dislikes are evergreen.
Are you never wrong, I asked hollow-eyes
for their mood I could not understand.
It is simple, they said, there is never surprise
for I make up my mind beforehand.
My collection of foes and adversaries
the dark-shadowed speaker opined,
is in lists and logs and cemetaries,
newer members are easy to find.
But what of your friends and relations,
I questioned the hard-hearted shell.
They said that folk’s feeble narrations
contradicted all they knew so so well.
There’s no need to excuse any whinery
from people or even hear them out.
If you have beliefs fully binary,
said the wraith-head, it removes any doubt.
I was going to ask about love,
and sympathy seasoned with trust.
To my horror, their eyes turned above,
and they thereupon fell into dust.
Passages
What’s present is present
And past is past.
Too few todays
And less days
In the future.
So much sorrow
It’s hard to measure.