Portcullises

As I was channel surfing,

         I realized

                  There wasn’t anything on,

                           Except a bunch of boring

                                    Documentaries about drills

 There’s solace in the mark of sound

         And a fade is sure to follow

                  Brittle’s become the charm of man

                           Breaking before the break began

Grey, the darkening of alabaster walls

         White, the abused metaphor of purity

                  Red, stands for life yet also death,

                           But it is dark and I cannot see

The pronation

Of my own hands

Gates, doors

Turning keys

The locks adjust

Tourniquet

 Portcullises of the past reset

  

                 

Blandness of the Walking Stick

Redundancy is a part of life,

Without there’d be no commonplace,

No old hats or uncanny spice,

Life would compose itself

With brushstrokes of different paint

Each day a new palette for ourselves to face,

Passion grows stale just like actions do,

A fever runs and the cloth cools the skin

Afterwards you cautiously retrace your

Steps to avoid anything you could have done,

And thus any excitement you may have felt

Had become flavored with a form of allergic tongue,

Routines and cycles,

Ruts and quicksand,

We face these villains every day,

From clichés to clichés we like,

But have been told to hide

Any invitation to such thoughts away,

To be awake yet pretend not to see

To convince interest when you must pinch

Yourself not to sleep,

If only we were honest,

With each other, with ourselves, perhaps then  acrid odors we could dispell

Relapsing

Looping

Hours from now

The day shall look as it has

Only nature covers the façade

Painting fresh coats atop the

Broken, dilapidating walls

I call a home

Shells of ideas kindle notions,

Faltered and collapsed desire

That the societal norm will convert to

A system of measurement

More adaptable to the relapsing

Conducive to a fragile kind,

A well learned place for one like I

Relapse, adapt and revise,

A memory can be altered

To suit the conditional mind,

Reload, prologues and overtures

For the coda of the forgotten soul,

Another opportunity to rise

The only straw of hope left as I

Shepherd my way through the night