A Self-Realization

In blind vision I seek the lost
answers to sheltered freedom.
To dream of reality, is a far-fetched
fantasy, fleeing from this fellow, filled,
yet void of concrete soul.

My chameleon character grins and lies
on this face. Too true to reflect the
false, but false enough to fake the
truth.

Muted music, mumbled,
emerges from this symphony of
silenced souls. A score written for
Dim eyes, and performed for
Dull ears. Yet played with this wailing
heart, budding by a blue moon's bright
beam.


It's Neither here, nor Real.

These are the irrefutable meanderings
of those reluctant to wake for the
journey to morning through starlit safaris,
and they guide these empty minds and
heavy lids to safety.

A haven of resounding silent serenades,
sung without words through the nose.

They are things of mindless jabber,
nonsensical and brilliant
to the deaf ears of the hearing,
the blind eyes of the seeing,
and the quiet lips of the

dreams not yet heard, but
forming. (still the bits of yesterday)
A dash of hope for tomorrow.

They're all too true, too real, too
pure and unrestricted is this,
the mind.

These are the unconscious masses,
ferried across Styx for an eve of
pleasure and dreams undone into
worse things than this,
my mind.


Meticulous Mutterings (on a mankind)

Melancholy melody
is a manipulation of musical masterpiece.
Mindlessly milling about a museum,
we're marveling maliciously at the
masters' medium of magnificent
mahogany and marble.


ignore this

What worth in my words?
I speak into the wind.
fleeing, flying, fluttering chagrin.
sorrow, sadness, sudden despair.
I'd say it again, but hey, who cares?