get busy growing

The gates are down,

broken down,

I marched in with

malicious intent

as only humans can.

 

No survival instinct,

pure aggression unwrapped,

punching at your fragile state of mind,

to err is human,

to kill

maim

break

destroy

decapitate 

is GODLY.

 

there is no quick fix,

no fix at all,

for the broken humanity,

that still dances as a saint,

while proving to be the sinner.

 

No dawn will break,

there's no storm passing

which would break if weathered

long enough

unless you count on death,

which is always counted out

but never down for the count.

 

No twilight of peace,

and what a stupid book,

and what a stupid wish.

 

Life is a torrent of lightning,

fire and destruction,

where a tree shelters you

momentarily,

or you huddle with others

sometimes for a night,

sometimes for fifty years

but nothing lasts

and death is lonely.

 

Get busy growing,

or keep dying;

but enjoy it.

A brush of inspiration

A starry-night sadness,

drifts through my ears,

escaping in visions,

and flash-memories,

through my window.

A clock disintegrates,

working it's way down,

this out-reached branch,

we call consciousness.

Will it bounce on impact,

when it meets the floor's rug?

Will it splatter carefully;

silver over black, white, yellow,

and

red?

Will the broken-man's dreams,

drift down the sorrowful waters,

of Monet's liquid Palazzo da Mula?

The smile teases,

at the corners of the lips,

because life is fragile.