Little Futures

*For Brandon*

Life does not pardon the dreamer from his dreams...

swung low to the inner voice
for a sweeping rendition of redemption;
love songs of a god's venegance reaped
against the human-self; wars
weakening to every weakness
that nothing can ever truly be
purged at its source,
as long as this devil still lives

The conditioned dance of silences & sorrows are but a softer form of exile...

to wring the eye of light, dry
and blind the soul abandoned
until a small unliving jar of the
without and fed only by the
bitter-sweet unimaginings and
deconstruction of what soft
temples the heart had made
from the sand & dust

The future was always left there for someone to change...

the past a landscape from towers
and ruin that has worn-out it's
face in a space of days that it takes
for the soul to walk away from its
own manac piques-- the ecstasy and
isolation of sharing shadows and
breaths with the exotic libertines
dancers and a quickening pulse of
blood and sweat

Upon a gray Sunday morn awake to a gradual weakening...

where the body had been left,
abused and torn away from the
night like a bloody appendage;
though the scars that remain
visible are only these ready
defects of character to keep the
absence alive through the day
in those idle stares that have been
trained not to see what it is about
them

A moment of one true reflection lasts longer than all of this fantasy-life...

here to cast the heart's opera,
these villians of fear and regret
set toward a mindlessness minstrel's
perpetual antagony of reason;
of what love can only be adored
from an audience and had no true
part in this world, save the way
we have all felt at one time or another

To adorn oneself with those unclean rags of such uncalm spirits...

fed oblivion's song these children
of disrepair, if left to grow only
to be the tragically disenchantment
and a cruel deformity of the perfect
form... alas and too near
human like a whisper shiver through
the winds to look away from beauty
as too painful to the eye

"Here I am!" now wide awake open and naked before a sea and tide of perpetual change...

that could take me away unto those
eternal depths that no light can break
through the undiscovered space of
such terrible imaginings inhabitted by
those creatures like time and other super-
natural elements that would slowly
pick us apart-- the most forsaken lot
to never be seen or heard from again

A night-wind vampire caught, like every other spiritual creature of night or day...

to unbecome ourselves in these ready
shadows of death, and a reawakening
ghost of the abandon; it was never so
wicked to experience pleasure, ecstasy, lust--
as to become the captive of our own
cell of sorrows, unrepulsed by even the
most intimate pain; and ne'er to be
unchained to these darkest passions of
the self grown cold

Of what horrible ugliness we must endure to be beloved as beauty...

that the shrieking in the wind becomes
intolerable, underneath a sky of black and blue
that every enemy we perceived given
a human face o'er the creature of our own
unique caste of gods; and its myriad son
that are these angels, raised above or
fallen at our feet, as these devils only
last so long as we have kept them alive
in wander-lust and the rabble of such ready
an inhuman indifference and deference to
the will of God

As it must be to leave those that hunger or feast upon the world's pain...

within a collection of jars
full of other such abandonings,
sufferings within these many
kingdoms of gods, only of greater
or lesser appearance that power
can create its own idlewile delusions
o'er the graves of both citizen and
slave, of the elite and the vagabond
sharing one small space

It is always a child's cry I hear, so likened unto my own weakness...

that I might shatter-tear through the
walls of industry and cathedral,
possessed of my own indifference as
their own meaning so much as what
I felt must be saved, and what should
merely be redesigned so that no one
is without its own true place

Yes, life will never pardon the dreamer of their dreams...

'little boy,' this shuddering heart whispers
within such a frail breast before its eyes are
opened and it stares up into the first face
it shall ever see and come to believe that it
was never truly alone and left here-- to be
found or die, as only fate and some other
old idolatries of fortune of human design

A conditioned dance of silences & sorrows are but a softer form of exile...

born into this world and possessed by
the only life it will perhaps ever know,
whether it is long or short-- it is easier
to create something new than to repair
the damage done; for when it is time to
cry is too late to really be able to do
anything at all

The future was always left there for someone to change.

Peace,
Po