(Just a little light momentary pity fit, you know, “how I be” feeling sometimes, and I write, so…)

From the Middle Torture Chambers…

A middle life
Yields a muffled cry
That no one desires to attend
Few, some, around, at times
For a minute, dispassionatly, adverbally
An adjectivly weak tailspin
For no one yearns
To hear the enlightenments
Of that flattened center space
No one cares for perspectives
That the verve of exotic margins erase
For a middle life predictably draws power
That eats the zeal of the day
No middle magic weilds enough interest
To hold a captive sway
Therefore, moderately blessed
In-betweens and means may often find
That the glory that they seek
Will only torture their minds
Angst and agony painfully increase
While watching long sought dreams
Slowly, completely unwind
And peter out with a gasping wind
As life beckons the middle
Ever closer
To the end

Pry yourselves from platitudes of piety
Flesh and stone dieties betray you
Shallow smiles convey
That you regard us less
For you applaud those who scale monuments
In worship of puppet kings
In search of absolutions
Within the lies they sing
Forbid yourself the words
You utter otherwise
When you wax deeply of your hurts
While you ignore the desperate cries
And mock brown broken bodies
As light drains from their eyes
Disallow trite tales
And disingenuous turns of phrase
That vain would steal my voice
While your desires find a way
To manifest for your own might
Twisting words, shading light
Right is wrong
Wrong is right…
There is no common ground
When the blood of my loves stain
This stolen hallowed ground
As you run to cover the sound
Of the beast that yet lives

Hands that Pick

Hands that picked cotton for promise

Picked tense times

Places

Uncommon faces

Found Broken Spaces

To Cast Spells and Votes

That Filled and Manifested Hope