the poet sits
on a simple throne
made of stone
for you he waits
he waits for no one
you are no one
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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
Initials carved in wet concrete, worn smooth by the passage of passing feet.
Time passes, yet those indelible figures remain; through burning sun and falling rain.
Steps pass over weary stone, ankles click and muscles groan.
I am not immune to the passing of time. Each step is mine; each second mine.
Each crack in concrete marks the time and old carved initials become a sign…
Of things we’ve lost and days enshrined.
By faded photographs, our lives unwind.
Like broken cuckoo clocks.
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 .
Right now the Grand Game’s being played,
But I’m tired of making patterns out of shadows I’ve made,
And I’m tired of seeking secrets when the truth is so plain,
And I’ve heard the plain is where the rain falls mainly in Spain,
So I’ll try to educate you ’bout the state of my brain,
I know I might seem kind of crazy but I’m far from insane,
On the inside I am levitating on another plane.
Michael Scott Hand 