Mirror Image.

Laying firm, youthly with scarred burns

six foot of cover, deep below any concern

this only I know, for I gave his family an ash filled urn

because for him they seemed to yearn 

asking unanswerable questions in turns

so 'him' I returned.

Knock knock. Hear me, I'm still alive

somehow I survived my oxygen deprived demise

slept in a fiery disguise, then in this claustrophobic dark I was revived

to my surprise that these hollow roots slowly carried air inside.

His voice is clearly recognized though his face I could barely describe

and in every mirror I see the place that he resides, subsides.

Smokey the dragon.

I'm not a killer but I'll murder the planet 

and all that breathe upon it

eruption of political voices is nothing if not volcanic.

The inner fire burns with every outward step that's planted

consumed by the light that every sight is morbidly enchanted.

Look around at all the fodder for their cannons

the righteousness of life is constantly re-examined

against the right, the less and all the famine

the wars, the torn and all the lands left barren.

I'm honest with the heat, you just blame the smoke screened dragons.

Eye to eye.

Eye openly precedes the eye that closingly dreams

the eye that exceeds declared a creed, to which I agreed.

This is like this and that is that, why can't I rewrite

what the appetite means, I'll recite the heart and not take the bite

write impolite, bounce 'em off satellites, be my own no copyright

a playwright of the fight to ignite the nighted light of ones open sight.

Farming music.

Regurgitation of animalistic rage

bleated beats of the broken cage 

G.O.A.T's goaded to monetary fame

old MacDonald had a farm, full of pain.

The greatest are the voices in the dark

the calm in the storm, not the smart witted remarks

nor are they minors mining for gold just to fill their carts

their the unmarked hallmarks, silently fighting for a fresh peaceful start

they deserve better then ill spilled bars pushing up charts

old MacDonald had a farm, to which they played no part.

Infight.

Comatose mind, its unthinkable

open eye dreams that's unblinkable

a presentable pupil, that's visual

to peer no peers, like their invisible

mentally filled in graves now the pit is full 

that's pitiful, of dreams believed fictional

the inhospitable brain that came divisible

demonic monsters take control, its almost mythical

food for thought they become nutritional, medicinal

the unforgivable, the immiscible, is conditional 

that I'm the original, the individual ever quizzical

against the inner satanic rituals.

Monkey see, monkey do.

 

Monkey see keep up with monkey do

tree to tree, to branch the branch of deja vu

swing the swings to influence their world view.

Explore, abhorred, an outcasted detour

the obscure, the 'impure', where strength is truly stored

the ability to endure the normalised manure

to be the opposable that secures the right to open doors

the difference that helped, to ensure our reign henceforth.

Empty canvas.

Canvas waiting patiently 

emptily stood so aimlessly

silently it speaks of its vacancy

spaciously aware of its specialty

graciously lacking complacency

so blamelessly pure in its naivety.

Dreaming?

I dream of dreaming since my sleep is dark

I dream of the light from the very first spark

I dream of the life from whence time was marked

I dream of the end, the potential of a fresh start.

I dream of dreaming, though I'm blinded to the art.

Say nothing.

Vortex texts of a stormy end, puddle drowned

dressed in a watery crown and deaths gown

yet still the body walks aground, unfound

a sentence for the downed, eternally bound.

Translation is nowhere around

spoken word, without sound

a poem without the noun

a demonetised impound,

lost among the found.