Wednesday, October 5, 2016

the enlightened.

she melts
into the music
as the wine flows
and the night grows darker.
she captures the essence of life
in her tiny body
and leads me along
with every twist and turn
on the dance floor.

she floats
into the rhythm
in some kind of trance
escaping from what constantly
holds her back
discovering the enlightenment
we all endlessly desire.

tattoos. piercings. scars.

what a turn on:
tattoos. piercings. scarification.
there is nothing you wouldn't do
to release whatever is torturing you.
as I explore the depths
of your body
I read the story it tells.
all your anxiety.
your pain. your loves.
your hatred.
it all is written out
in color
like the desires you have
for me
it shines brighter
than the red in your hair.
your message rings clear
and I know every feeling
you express to me is true.
do you trust me with your soul?

a beautiful stranger.

a beautiful stranger
dancing to the band
a enchanted vision casting your hoodoo
enthralling me with your movements
pulling me further into your spell.

a beautiful stranger
a six foot redheaded bombshell
motioning me closer
with the pulsating of your body
capturing me
holding me hostage in a prison
from which I have no desire to escape.

a quiet heroine.

she writes love songs
sitting at the piano
while I look on with drink
in hand
watching her fingers and toes
work at the tools
as she belts out the vocals
for only my ears to perceive.

she's my safeguard-
a quiet heroine
wrapping me in a protective blanket
keeping me tepid
as I fight thru this world
breaking the borders
of the freedom I speak
in my poesy
trying to make it
in a society of literary giants
writing their academic poetry
leaving out the reality
of the hatred
floating to the surface
from the bottom
of this burning hell
we live and die in every day.

she writes love songs
to the sunlit mornings
and birds singing in flight
holding everything together
as I slowly succumb to the demons
that rip my soul apart.

the recluse.

he spends most of his time
locked in his room
hidden away from people-
the crowds that he fears.
sheltered away from the outer world.
his mind is weakened by the pills
and his body by the booze.
no one misses him
no one cares.
he is a ghost haunted by himself
and the pains that plague him
day in-day out.
when he leaves this place
nobody will know
and as his gravestone is consumed
by moss and debris
he will decay alone
with the peace he could never find
on this dark and ill-starred earth.

look beyond.

stop looking for solace
in the normal people.
cease relying on the innocence
of the middle class.
the gardens overflow with the dead
and the newborn.
the cave may seem like a dark
and endless grave
but you will find life
if you search hard enough
avoiding the obvious places.

Keith Wesley Combs

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...