Legs of a Newborn

Chilling me, my bones;
Solar vision of a home.
Leave sense alone,
For good can be struck
Gathered at
Legs of a newborn.

Forgive this faintest vision:
Whelping at green gates,
Unable to return this burden
To a rusty hand that remains
Steadlock,
A wooden helm,
For sorcery:
Electric sounds gurgle on.

Mission of lost specifics,
Vague and cold and distant offers
Scrawling deeper into well lit halls
Piano key footsteps;
I’m an anarchist loosing it
Blessed closing song
Holding a chord
Of a subtle melody
Breaking my consciousness.

Key of E Minor

Enter the Maestro
Long silence and little chatter
Shiny little black shoes
From where I sit
Clacking animatedly
Excited anticipation
Thus begins.

Rusting cello strings
Played in the lower key of E Minor
Pounding but softly on the frets
As a window amidst rain
Can only feel
Agony of the heart
Echoing off engineered walls
Settling to silence
Little flutter.

Hover one moment
About the lower E Minor chord,
Wait for no other beast
At the breast of emancipation
For it shall be only
Figures you’ve called out;
Mighty turmoil
Dripped from thy chin
Upon ancient grains of wood
So cherished between fingers
Resonated into hearts
Of forgotten sadness.

Silence.
No more can movement
Break the spell of horror.
Deathly pale voids;
Look back, unrecognizing
Distracted
Caught in a forever key of E Minor
That remains as sustain
Lost to the world.

Walking

Though skies sit darkly
Reminiscing flatter plains,
I woke to a snowflake
Covering my name
Footsteps hardly criss-crossing
This empty expanse of our lane
So that magic could work
It’s betwickled strings
Into the heart of my sky.

Revolutionary Blood

My revolution has taken its toll
On jagged edges of my soul;
I’ve dawned gloves,
Sawn carefully,
Yet each gold line
I’ve carefully drawn out
– Tracing a route
For my skilled cut –
Has left an array
Of scraps and debris
That keeps slicing
Each fiber I live by,
So that each step I take
A trail of blood
Follows me
Ending at this precipice
My revolution has brought me to.

Ungracefully Lacking

Insight has lost its worth
For it no longer blesses thy journey;
It is a burden, a hex,
Pointedly accusing
And draining all chai.

How often does it rain?
Even cold grass
Does not sprout green
For it has lost its vision,
Quest departed long ago
Sun turned into mold.

Gravel roads
And sombre trees
Who no longer speak;
Dormant, sleeping, away
Unto this vision
Cold and ungracefully lacking.

Healing Is Still

When the streets bleed
With vibrating violence
We know that only scares the guilty
Hanging like
The victims they laid
Aside in their greed;
Healing shall still be far away.

When grass grows
Over crumbled ruins
Abandoned and exposed,
Rebels of a forgotten war
Who plundered all its worth
Relaxing in their misdeeds
Shall fever in the night
And visions reminding them
Healing shall still be far away.

When flags tear at their seams
Weakened in the wind
Salt licking at the sides
Of metal catastrophes
Blowing weeds that take control
Shall struggle upon the ground
Understanding their due;
Healing shall still be far away.

When the last engine
Seizes from strain
Deep in jungle rain, overgrown
And wildcats become predator
Most feared and most bestowed
Vines and trees, all wide and tall
Laying over all regrown
Healing shall still be far away

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