Even the bars are empty
on a windy Friday night;
no one has the strength
or cash
to even drink enough
to momentarily forget
their golden cages.

Freedom rings
they tell us,
in this land stolen
from the weak,
made richer by the weaker
and the force
of others used
to make them work,

but the only truely free
are those who
can afford to flee.

cure congeal catacombs
heritage of break silence
spawning grounds......slur syllabic
lushness parched throats

truncate and receding
monument and truncheon
in solitary devolution
echo of pinnacle

pedestal the leper whose feast of apparition
fruition dote bearing similitude
restrain the condiments- me and you
a mirror - strewn

tar baby
melt under the blue
smile and history
wraps up
all the depths caressing you
the parties ghosts
and you
the unhappy host

beneath the doubtful skies
a welcoming
room
lonely and emptied
a spring of flowers
waiting
a summer of joy
derailed

inside the rains fall
afraid and drawn in
this journey
is about to begin

away from all that hurts
and dissapointments
faded like a winters
coat

a pure journey
the last hope

Often are told the tales of dreams
without reality's constraint
where we can fall between the seams
and waking world can become faint.

Fantastic worlds can flow from pen,
often times I write of them
as do many other men
before the stories become dim.

Do those in that other land,
when they fall asleep at night,
envision us here in our strand
as we endure some mundane plight?

What is it to really BE
in either existence we share?
for reality is what we see
whether we are here or there.