Dragged Along, Dragged Away

The ticking keeps beat,

Every hour, every day,

A mark of its past,

Prelude to futures

Of infinite directions

Spiraling to a single point.

There are branches along the way,

They are blocked.

There are deviations in the path,

They are blocked.

There is a single path in the road

Bearing straight towards the horizon.

It has been forgotten.

Where are all those uncounted

Moments never forged, never sung,

Never born? No gravestone for

The lost. How could

Those have a marker?

It lumbers forward,

We follow.

It does not falter,

We follow.

A momentary glance back

The ticking cannot accept,

And drags, kicking and

Screaming, its host along

The path is has marked ahead. 

Book of Bones

The chicken-man dances to

the devil's metal roar. Fury beats

in his sweaty yellow feathers,

flying in the wind. What kind of nightmare

wrought such a creature, that seeks

the company of hulking heathens

and scrawny skeletons, writhing long

into the dark? He has no need for the

sickening light of two-faced love.

A book of bones is his temple,

after all the pages have been burned.

Distant Roads

Dare I search for that

Fleeting instant, rare

As catching lighting’s

Wild form, when along

Distant roads of starlight

Paved, our eyes dare

Stop to hear the others

Song?

Is it worth the tide

Of sinking suns and

Rising moons, painting

Sorrows of forgotten

Hues across the sky

Into a canvas void of

Shape, purpose, or

End?

So long has that road

Stretched on into

Nowhere, so full of

Madness has that canvas

Grown, wretched weariness

That only leads to

Lethe’s comforting

Shores.

Autopsy

They push and they shove

A looking glass into my head,

Hoping to find what makes

The gears stick, the motors die,

Over and over again.

How many secrets have you lifted

From the tombs I built of silence?

What ghosts have you awoken,

To fill the memories

I never made?