Wayward Whisperings

I bridge the gap between second and third
The intrinsic value
Of a flightless bird
A hole within space
Infinite and abysmal
indescribably undefined
I grope for my soul

An imaginary man
With invisible footsteps
With no past and no future
I sit here on doorsteps
Doorsteps leading to doors
With no passage
Just doorknobs, hinges, brick walls
And static
I move with the grace and the pace
Of a man with no purpose
Devoid of objective
Amounting to worthless
I glide through the cacophony of life
With no one on my arm
This yellow brick road
Is tattered and worn
My eyes make no contact
My breath marks no air
my voice makes no sound
I withdraw to my lair
Where I simply exist
Although debatable that
Like mist in a cage
I choose to be trapped

The Sculptor's Storm

The hailstorm of being
Flings boulders of ice
Whilst words are whispered in my ear
That the sky is falling

The pitter-patter of a gentle summer's rain
Used to be the beat and tempo
To which I set my refrain
My chorus
My bridge
My whole composition
But the storms have set in
And my pitter-patter now booms with thunder
And crashes with lightning

Like crumbling monuments
From those of us
In centuries past
I've seen what was, what is, and what soon shall pass
Like the sculptor
My actions etch shape
Into the makings of my own future
He, who I will be
Watches me
From inside the block of stone that is my life

I'm chiseling away
With expert precision
But the hailstorm marks my masterpiece
With threatening imperfections
Relentless
Unceasing
Unyielding
Increasing
Frequency and intensity
The boulders now fly
With malice and spite
My song skips a beat
All bark and all bite

Some demon unleashed
This salvo upon me
This sculptor is broken
My stone falls around me

I've ripped a hole in the sky
And shouted out into space
The lead I have lost
In this mad dashing race

I'm sorry
Forgive me
Clip the madness quickly
I watched these cities fall down
Quickly and without sound
The monuments we built
Barely stand at half mast
Wondering if this was truly the last

Predictions of God's little fingers
Playing games of chance with blindfolds
We linger

In ruins of home
And wastelands formerly know as tomorrow
My masterpiece
Now the infinite sorrow
My old vinyl slips
On the absence of pitter-patters
The hailstorm of being
Deals its blow

The Rebirth of Magic

Little globes of vision

Blink with design

By the hand of a magic man

Or by generations in time

Little digits of curiosity

Grip for everything that they can

A marvel and a wonder

Awe-stricken for a span

Fingers touch to fingers

Like a twig to a stump

Dryness in your throat

Swallowing lumps

Little life is cultivated

From somewhere in the beyond

The mystery is showing

Koi circling in a pond

This is the infinite

Wonderment of the innocent

Playing the roles of gods

With no knowledge or forethought

With mere seeds

Grows the world

With time’s passing

So do we

Just enough days

To be jaded by miracles

Faded to cynical

Death is never the pinnacle 

Forgotten majestics

Pushed to the backs of our heads

Monotony

With which we fill our lives instead

I urge you to remember this moment

This one right here

Hold it in your mind’s eye

Keep it crystalline clear

For all those instances and times in this life

When you doubted magic

It got lost amidst the pain and the strife

But this here is proof

You are holding its hand

The mystic call of the world

Believe it if you can

Glance into those globes

Of everything pure and enchanted

And know in your heart

Magic exists