The Fallen SaintA fiery tree with burning leaves marks the start of fall,
And under looming branches lie a child's forgotten doll.
Her face shows signs of weather, chips and cracks in paint,
Forgotten in a sea of leaves, she is the fallen saint.
Her painted smile never falters in the summer sun,
Even when the thunder giants bang their battle drums.
When winter spiders spin their webs of barbed wire thorns and thread,
And mighty trees shed crying leaves and leave them all for dead,
The saint will sit against the trunk of her mighty maple tree,
Staring out with painted eyes into the wooded sea.
Watching as the seasons pass upon a gentle hill,
Sitting for eternity where others never will.
The setting sun is shining now on cracks that will not heal,
But do not pity the fallen saint for the smile she smiles is real.
The Beauty of SilenceNothing can be said with a bag of broken words.
Our minds try to fly but we've clipped the wings of birds.
You'll always be a fleeting grasp from what you want to say.
You'll always have lightning on the brightest shining day.
The only time we truly speak is when our tongues are still.
The silence that we scream is loud enough to kill.
You waste your time with words, I'm staring at your eyes,
I'd rather swim in pools of blue than listen to your lies.
You are the deaf pianist, playing songs you'll never hear,
The notes your fingers never hit come through crystal clear.
When you speak, I close my eyes, and listen to your song,
Cause someday, when you sing, the love will all be gone.
I Want to be Burned AliveYour soul is on fire, but you don't make a sound.
Your body still stands while it burns to the ground.
There's spiders in your heart, yet you manage a smile.
I pity your mind, but I like your style.
I know where you've been, and I know where you're going.
Your cinders will smoke while your embers are glowing.
When the rain comes, many will cower.
But you, my torch, will stand in the shower.
Your flames will be smothered, and your soul will be free,
Your mind will be clear, you'll forget about me.
But I'll still sit, where the rain always pours,
Where lost souls stumble on foggy shores,
For I am the lighthouse that never shines,
I am the ghost leaving you signs,
My flames are still fierce, but they shine inside,
A place of solace where my soul confides,
I could go with you, but I'll probably stay.
That road is not mine, my heart will decay.
I want to share flames and scorch the stars,
Our bodies charred with a million scars,
But it cannot be, for I'm home on the sea,
That road is not mi
Odd RockI am the stone that crushes the fruit.
A rolling boulder, messenger of the dead.
Hello, living thing. I am going to kill you,
Or maybe I'll just roll over you,
Yeah, I think I would like that.
Maybe we are playing, or maybe
I'm hurting you.
You know, I sink in water.
Let's go play there.
I like watching fish,
they hide under me.
Or let's play in a volcano,
No wait. That would
Can we be friends?
I have never hugged a stump before,
Can I stay with you and sit on you,
and talk about the
I see a rock.
Where the Sidewalk StartsThere is a place where the sidewalk starts
And the sun sets in our hearts,
And there cracks yawn on tar,
And there the moon shines like a star,
And there the crow settles, he's flown so far
To die where it all starts.
Let us come now where smoke hangs heavy
And the thick matted grass parts.
Through the ashes where ember buds bloom
We shall sit here forever in sad ruin,
And stare longingly at the moon
To the place where the sidewalk starts.
Yes, we'll sit with a pose that is hunched and low,
And we'll stay where the frigid winds blow,
For our hearts, they mark, and our hearts, they know
The place where the sidewalk starts.
CarnivalI have seen you before. You are me, and I am you. You are the actor, and I am the crowd. I sit in morbid harmony as your scene is set. At first, the smell of burning dust fills the air, the lights are warming up. Bells ring off in the distance, they signal your cue. The lights flash on with a pale flicker and the silhouettes of dust cast lazily on the ancient curtains behind you. You're head is down, and your body posed, cross legged on the floor, hands behind your back. You wear the attire of a marionette, your ruffled, stained collar creeping forth from pale, painted flesh. Your dingy suit has three large, round buttons with faded colors smeared like a painter's smock. There are rips and tears where the threads hang loose, but still you sit, like an angel in the dust. The crowd is empty, but the phantoms do not remain silent, with their cravats and monocles, they've come for... us. Like static they flicker, they're cheers seeming far and distant, balloons falling and falling again, r
The Day of RegretOh I know a place where it snows,
Where ash falls in flakes of white,
Ive never seen the edge of the world
Until such a bitter night
Oh I know a place where the lava runs cold
Where time moves forever, but you never get old
Ive seen the world through a beggars eyes
Ive stolen bread with saddened sighs
Under sagging stars theres so much regret
Can fire stop burning, does it ever forget?
My city is crumbled, a beggar no more
Now I am free, but still I am poor
Ice is still warm, fire still cold
God, in a day I've grown so old
I can name three colors off the top of my head,
These colors be black, white, and red
They mean nothing to an untrained soul
But everything to hardened coal.
It burns so fast for a minute of heat
Never a diamond, never complete
And thus is life, a fatal car crash.
I bid you farewell, to my city of ash.
ButterflyI walk among the gardens of sound
My feet never touching this soiled ground
For I am not worthy to play in the mud
Instead I toil on a blossoming bud
And on this flower of precarious nature,
My attention was seized by one distinct feature
The flower was black, the color of love,
And the petals formed chaos, the shape of a dove,
And dully I noticed the sound of grating,
From machines far behind where the children were playing
In the fields of rust and broken glass
Where the children giggle and nighttime holds fast
Where dead trees so full of life,
Sprinkle my dreams like a rusting scythe,
And then I turn away from my hopes,
Back to the flower which droops and mopes,
And theres something beautiful about the death in this thing,
How it remains so cold in the warmth of spring,
How it relies not on the shine of the sun,
But gets its heat from the barrel of a gun,
Cocked and loaded ready to fire,
A winter ember with such a desire,
To burn down the fields in a snowy tundra,
To blot out
The GodCan you still see when the sun burns through the iris?
Can you still breath when the clouds spread the virus?
Can you still bleed when your heart stops beating?
Can you remain sane when the world keeps repeating?
Can you still speak when your tounge quits quivering?
Can you still live when when your heart is shivering?
Would you even bother, If there was no father,
To keep the heart beating, to refrain from cheating?
When Gods tears dry, and angles die,
When the heavens burn a hole through the sky,
When the serpent awakes, with red earthquakes,
And the earth grows barren with dried up lakes,
A tribute to a demon, who calls me a free man,
Though I'm still shacked to my mind,
In a prison that is lined,
With my own sins, and rusty tins,
Of the past i can not forget,
I play kick the can, with a dangerous man,
Wearing black on a hot sunset,
In a desert in my mind, where there ceases to be time,
in a place so alien to life, I lay alone with a wife,
A widower, though I'm still here,