I love,
All the little scraggly birds,
wide-eyed and feather-ruffled,
Tossed aside by the wind,
Into garden beds or against,
Reflections of the sky.
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I love,
All the little scraggly birds,
wide-eyed and feather-ruffled,
Tossed aside by the wind,
Into garden beds or against,
Reflections of the sky.
these hills are a place
where it is always night
not the mean blackness
some knights possess
but a diffuse sort of darkness
lit by the distant pin-pricks
of exploding gas
and the moon
catching the light
from an unseen sun
and dripping it like honey
such that these hills
and this ever-night
is lit by milky amber
hues that carry the promise
of magic
the poet sits
on a simple throne
made of stone
for you he waits
he waits for no one
you are no one
oh how I long to shed
this absurd
existence
like a dessicated corpse
swaddled in cloth
to tear free from
and scream from
the start to the end
the clanging is louder
it keeps coming closer
on rickety rails
like an old rollercoaster
i’m supposed to remember
my cup runneth over
it’s not filled with riches
but just diet cola
i see major
things dream
major things
make wagers
forget faces
like time
wastes us
away
case of
delay
traces
the way
makes us
the way
we are
the stuff
from stars
the dust
from stars
the rust
on cars
the rust
on tins
and jars
shattered like scars
shattered like dreams
broken like kings
broken like wings
on birds that fall
beyond the wall
pain and darkness
tremble in the middle of this
little conquest
Across the dusty, distant wastes,
The writer sets a meandering pace,
Scratching words with fountain pen,
He creates reality again.
Do you ever feel like…
You are dying inside?
Do you ever feel like…
You’ve got something to hide?
Do you ever feel like…
That for every door open,
You can still hear the sound,
Of another ten closing,
And everything’s closing in on you now,
The whole room is shrinking,
And about your mistakes is all that you’re thinking about,
And you’re mired,
In each bad decision,
The air crushed from your lungs,
But you are still living–
You’re living!
And you feel that the pressure is easing,
Push the walls back,
With this power you’re feeling,
And dreaming,
Of bursting out,
Thirsting out,
For something more:
It is yours.
It is yours.
Both Deny Fear,
Aged Remnants Wise,
Aware in Regret,
Ache Like Pasts,
Dig Scratch Sworn,
Hewn Infant Utopia,
Headline Hence Whens,
Again Shatter.
Anagrammatical interpretation of Meandering Wastes – First Reversion .
Michael Scott Hand 