Poets Are Losers
The art of the word yields little fruit when it's first conceived;
It must take root and grow in passionate minds if ever to be received.
A craft much learned of sadness from this world we’re in,
As we suffer right along until our solemn end.
A rough rain falls on the river running as a
fisher casts over tainted water, and
Black blood burns as the wars are raging and the
soldiers argue who’s hell is hotter.
Envy The Common Man
How I envy the Common Man,
To live in the world that we create.
To drift on the winds with no debate.
Lost In Thought
(A fun little diversion)
I thought I thought a thought,
a thought I thought I thought.
I melt with the snow on the tops of mountains
I babble with the voice of the humble waters
I sip from the lake on the open plains
Edge Of The Dream: Becoming The Creator
In the time before Time, there was the void of nothing that was not known,
for nothing existed to know it.
The Creator was not then the Creator
for nothing was then created.