POETRY: AT EASE

We love the deaths we create

like playing God 

We play Doctor with choice, needles and syringes

Serving death  on mackintosh sheets

Nights of sleepless slumber
Days of attentive distraction
Hours racing into days
Lived a being destined to die


It is real though
The torment, the torture
The torrent of guilt!
Never at ease with the strangers we've become to ourselves
Or of fighting Morality's wars.

It is funny though
The ease with these wars
For time passes

And only the charts live to tell the tale

of souls that lifts from their slumber
And of ease that grows from distraction.

POETRY: STOLEN

It felt good to be there
That home away from home
But the inward voice echoes the wrong in this right

Been there and here
A mysterious two sided lives lead
All home but none home
One's right that is not right!

Yesterday births today
But Tomorrow died a stillborn
Trust built on eternity's promises
delivering a falsity in truth's lies

What justifies this indulgence?
This forcing of one to believe
What one knows as untrue 
This false identity, truth creates?

Once there and always here
Never barring these memories
 once instilled
Always remains
No delete this brain knows


So we live in our coffin of rot
Our denial

Strengthening the bonds of our decaying existence