i’d think you’d have
compassion
‘cuz you stole all of
mine
take off your colored
glasses
for all the hues have
died
the stench will kill your
olfactors
when your livin in a
stie
but i digress, you
progress
to make my happiness
fly
like a paper plane in the
summer
whose nature the ground drew
nigh

A Mystery! A Mystery!
How many morns of merriment
may end in such sad sweet songs
of pleasing past pictures gone into putridity
of little lying lives – lifelessness
change consuming the creativity of childhood,
Until only an old oppressed imagination
exists to be blown below a bed
and adulthood advancing against all
the youthful yearning, and devastating
dreams of doing deeds destined to remain
restlessly for reasons reproduced generation
to generation, grandfather to grandchild, gaining
great gravity as a familiar family fortitude, flourishing
til the ghastly grave greets us.