A night of restless wandering...

the road was unwalked, and i decided to walk it. i passed plastic buildings and neon nothings, and then the air shifted. into another world, feet already tired, something crept up my spine, and i ceased to be comfortable. i could feel the decay around me. the breeze itself seemed tired of this place. houses with no windows, spray painted in words undeserving of attention. i wanted to take a picture of one such house. i did not. was unsure what the camera flash might awaken from behind the scabs that served as walls there. but there was no healing in these buildings; no restoration; no redemption. only decay and rot. under a piece of corrugated box lay something that was probably a person once, alone, hidden from the horrors i walked through. hidden from the place that had become its home. i shuffled on again, hoping not to have been noticed. being noticed in that place, with my camera and my CK jacket, was my biggest fear. there, men often became animals, the types of people that inspired vampire and werewolf lore. didn't want to hang around, so i walked. as the train roared overhead, i stopped, at first admiring the train. wishing i could walk that fast straight out of this place. but what froze my feet still was the void beneath. the blackness between the columns. the voices of countless men who had slept there, under the trains, and the fear that i was being watched. i kept walking.

Stasis

In stasis...
to say stable would be a stretch.
Tires spinning, unmoving.
if I were angry
would I be a wretch?
I've called myself alot of things;
a phoenix in a bottle,
a bird with no wings.
The flavours of my language elude me,
and their metaphors pursue me
like chick under hawk.
I've seen Braveheart,
and I've heard the Bard.
I've watched Napoleon fall
from the comfort of my couch.
To dodge the light fantastic, I'd say...
I've felt God on a cross;
in a ditch, at a loss
for a description of His petri dish,
He who made us...
Who gave us the right to get Him wrong,
I think He listens to every song.
and yes, I think He cries for me,
as I swing my fists, wishing I could see.

Wasting

Wasting and wasted,

watching nothing happen,
disappointed...
not just myself to blame
and then again blame is just a game.
responsibility...
something that's eluded me.
those who trust me and those i trust
out of balance; uncountable.
circles i turn in isolation,
victim of unwritten crimes,
victim, too, of my own mind.
circles i turn, afraid to break the mold.
terrified of all the truths i've never been told,
still, the lies i tell myself unwittingly-
they compound my problem,
digging me deeper,
as the world shovels it on
 and people, an enigma...
all love and hate and hope and fear and compassion
like myself.