Primitive

What do we find

In a streak of light

And a rush of noise?

What makes the heart pound,

The mind exult,

And the body tingle?

Is it the knowledge

That we possess to much

And embrace the erase?

Is it the power

That defies mental physics

And throws down cowards?

Is it that we love

Hearing the hands of gods

In epic arial combat?

Is it that we have witnessed

The most ancient,

the first exalted?

Is it that everything

Lays low and beholds

The epitome of primitive?

Wanderer Pt. 3

I would simply like to make the comment

That I seem to be talking to myself

More often than not

Is it because the only face I will ever again see

Are those smilies I trace into the ground

To antagonize that worn old face of me

And, as I prattle to the uncaring wind

Which whistles tunelessly, mockingly

I realize that no one else minds

I got to admit

This place really is

The Pits

Hunt Me

Hunt me if you please

Little Chickadees

As you sing your songs

With smoke filled bongs

And a muffled sound

Quite fully round

Fills the stoopid air

With a love so fair

Give me a chance

To show you how to dance

So that we can enjoy

Being a girl and a boy

And into the sky

We shall sigh

A heartfelt noise for two

And no more feeling blue

So I ask you to follow

To the land of marshmallow

Where all the people play

There are no shades of gray

In this place I love

Resting in the shade of doves

I will stay smiling

Even as life keeps on dialing

Wanderer Pt. 2

As waste turns full circle

As life turns full circle

We rose from ashes so clean,

They gleamed pure and white,

And we threw them in the air,

proclaiming our ignorance.

Wind took them away

Ashes go, and ashes come back

Ashes not so clean

Ashes not so pure

And life turns half circle

Noon to night, light to dark

Our wastes become our wastelands