These wounds unhealing
bleed my spirit
spilling it upon
the sacred ground
where lies buried
a thousand dead
each an empty
shell of me.
And now another
life is fading,
forgotten in a sea of faces.
And from these wounds
a heart is pouring,
its purpose for being
stolen away.

Pointless Purpose

Poet’s peril, plain performance –
potentate’s pleasure postures prideful
people prostrate; purpose proffers
profits plentiful, pleasing prowess
passes prosecution.

Just an exercise in word play.



This, I think, is
thunderous silence:
this watching, this waiting
for words not falling
wearies and weakens the
warrior’s resolve;
tortured by time’s
turning unbroken
by the night bird’s
nurturing song,
thankful the thunder
thickens the air.
Washing away the
wounds of war, the
storm’s embrace a
stolen moment
echoing an age of
empty silence
where lingers the last
of loving embrace.