Wearer of the soul shroud,
lonely and alone.
Succuming to shadows.
Erecting walls of truth.
Fortified by darkness,
surrounded by self.

Wearer of the cloak of night,

When the creeping of age,
finally does engage
the hands of fate.
We're left alone, godless,
stripped of faith.

Remember our invincible youth?
When all that passed our eyes,

A hawk
On winded wings
Aloft

On brilliant wings
Aloft

Higher and higher
She soars
On feathered wings
She soars

Searching for game
On the forest floor
Foraging for food

Submerged in fathoms of soul.
There is no meaning,
to flesh and bone.
Only the warm soft glow,
the depths of a mans own hell.

Are you really a bottomless well?

What an ass I've been!
To believe that life
could ever be changed!
That the pain
could somehow be rearranged
or that words could heal,
what I've chose to reveal!

In the innocence of youth,

Feeble wrinkled fingers,
cross to fold hands.
Praying to be set free.

Should I take a knife
to my very soul,
and let them see,
what they've done to me!

In my memory,
she still stands,

Poetry flows in vacant hours.
When all thats left
is time for thought.
My thoughts this time,
seems to devour.

I enclosed myself
in pitch blackness.
To see what I could find.

Why is it,
that men unearth their souls?
Uncovering old forgotten holes,
searching for answers to certain things,
that should be left alone,
to rot in the darkened deep.

The sweet temptation
of sour fruit.
Stired into a boiling stew,
then cooled and churned
to a golden brew.
With a cursed tongue,
I drink to you.

My search for some kind
of sacred faith,

With hands as worn
and scared as mine,
she says I've never
seen hard times?
When did her family
leave the bosom
of her life?
Did she even look
into the darkness of my eyes?
Has my mask

The night smells
of opium and incense.
The leaves of the Gods,
spread and burned.
A smoldering dream is discovered
and experienced.
Scented rooms of gold and lace,

The colorful pictures
of ancient poets,
have been stripped
from the walls of freedom.
My room is bare, cold
and white.
Once a great palace of individuality,
I now see the secret cell,

The care free are running
wild abandon into the ground,
watching swaying hips
and jiggeling tits, under neon light.
While I meticulously grind
shoulder bone into dust.

Beneath a metal roof,
beseeched by pounding rain,
where idleness is breeding discontent,
for what survival and simple necessity
has pressed upon us.

Rain seems to be driving

Awakened in the early morning,
dreaming of my grandfather,
my fathers father.
He sat in the old house,
Gadsden, Alabama,

Puting gold guild on an old picture frame.