The War Drums
The dagger’s hidden in the smile,
And the handshake chills my spine,
In my ears, a drum starts beating,
As timers tick to tell the time.
The greed and pride of politicians,
In waves as the applause roars,
And yet the drums keep beating,
The drums - they’re drums of war.
The rage inflamed within the masses,
The leaders redirect the blame.
The drums will not stop beating,
Like the crackling of a flame.
Then all at once an explosion,
The waves of shock ring out,
The drums are, louder, beating,
And the cries of war they shout
The blood of comrades splatter,
The bodies of brothers burn,
The drums, steady, beating;
They don’t stop or miss their turn.
The corpses of the fallen,
Soldiers, families, friends, and foe.
The war drum counts, while beating,
All their tombstones row by row.
The fallen aren't just the soldiers,
Innocents lie among the dead.
The war drums don't stop beating,
Until every street runs red.
The sorrow of a widow,
The grief of an orphan son,
When at last the drums stop beating,
Has anyone, truly, won?
I spent my time dreaming,
I spent my time planning,
I spent all my time here thinking my thoughts.
I spent my time feeling,
I spent my time reeling,
I spent all my time here just drinking my shots.
I thought that time just passed by,
I thought it just went fast by,
But time is never spent right, more often than not.
It starts with the buzz.
A single tingle getting you to mingle
With strangers that you’ve never met,
Never will meet again. Excited. Chattering.
Indistinctly remembering your previous sentence,
As you reach for another drink.
Harder, this time. Swooning. Fainting. Standing.
Laughing. Talking. Time blending into the lights,
Music. Swirling feelings of everything mixing, molding,
Shaping around you. And then you go down.
Best sleep of your life.
Burning eyes, numbing body. Hangover.
Never again, you say. But that night,
You hit up the bar. Again. It starts with the buzz.
Lonely. Powerful but lonely. There is no way
For me to find love. To find life. To find a soulmate,
For I take souls, but don’t have one. Every kiss
I try to give from my bony lips, marks the receiver
With inexistence. Every embrace that I give
Ends in sorrow and grief. And funerals.
Funerals. The worst. They say, at funerals,
That I am cruel. Unfair. I’m just
Doing my job. I am compelled to take
What is due. And I must take
What is mine. I am lonely. Hated. Despised.
Because I take, and I don’t give.
I love, and it comes back to bite me.
I want, and it disappears.
I am, and I am hated.
For anyone who misses the sounds of a bustling city.
Slow wind, swirling past the tops of skyscrapers,
Glancing through office windows. Lights. Morning. Sunrise.
Fast cars now, swerving past the bases of skyscrapers.
People moving into the office doors. Bustling. Busy.
Like a colony of ants. Miasma of red, green, yellow
And honking and beeping. Conversations and phone calls
Echoing and vibrating and pulsating through the heart
Of the city. Then slowly, it slows. Lazily. People working
In tiny cubicles, while the streets remain bare.
Occasional schools and playgrounds flooded
With chirping and chattering children. Slowly changing into
The adults who will one day sit and work
In tiny cubicles, while the streets remain bare.
Afternoon. Work over. People streaming back out
Into the streets, back out into their homes, into their
Lives. Jovial, the working class returns home. Cars,
Headlights, line the streets. The sun sets, and the lights switch on.
The sun may sleep but the city never does. Then,
Sunrise again, and a new day starts. Again.
New day, new dawn, new work. Metropolis.
Joyful, brimming, spring bursts forth,
The south wind blows the cold breeze north.
The dew on morning grass agleam,
And spring in fullest bloom will seem
To grace itself in petal lei,
Bright to rival summer day
Or autumn leaves or winter snow
And joyful, running, to and fro,
The spring bursts forth.
In life, sometimes, you’re just down on your luck.
And sometimes, that just pisses me off.
So when life gives me lemons, this is my reply.
Should fire not rage? Should thunder not crackle?
Should fists not fight? Should I remain shackled?
Should I let myself just get beaten by chance?
Or should I stand tall, take arms, and advance?
I raise up my chin and I look to the sky,
I raise up a shout, and I shout my war cry:
Fire will rage, and thunder will crackle,
Fists will fight, and I’ll be unshackled.
Because the Epitaph Could Not
Heroes rise, and heroes fall,
Here he lies, who made them all,
For though he dies, there’s still a fire
In what he made, he still inspires.
A hero he is, although heroes he made,
He’s proof that not all heroes wear capes.
Escape from Reality
Reality. We all try to escape it in different ways. Some try to trade in their lives for their freedom from it. A stool, a knife, a bottle of pills.
Others slowly trade in their lives, to gain a temporary, very temporary, portal to the universe outside of the shackles bound to us by this one. A joystick, some dice, a few dozen bottles and needles.
Until slowly, you realize that with these temporary ways out of the confines of reality, comes new restrictions of their freedom.
And as this reality sinks in, you realize that you can’t escape reality.
I had a dream once.
You, me, and a rainy walk
To a bus station.
Perfect droplets soaking perfect hair,
Accompanying the perfect melodies
Of sweet laughter. A cool breezy air
Filled the streets. And then,
You turned. I turned.
You pulled me in to you, gradually,
Wrapping your arms around me,
And wrapping mine around you, for a moment
Of perfect union. And then silently, you let go,
and I let go. We kept walking. Everything felt right.
I woke up happy, peaceful, joyful, ready
To go find myself that sweet, perfect, embrace.
I saw it, I found it, I got it, but I never got that
Feeling of rightness again. Little did I know
The rightness came not from the embrace
But rather, instead, from letting go.