Leaders speak Karma, while lending me spite.
Fists down, hammer hands with fortitude,
I will remember your lies this night.

Equivocating justice, like the burns of my skin

The choice of the lion,
is the breath lasting
another set of shine.

So he breathes deep,
and chooses to dispose
and keep, the strong and weak.

Knees spring and eyes

A safe haven I seek,
in lieu of the secrets
I cannot keep.

A solace I search for,
in empty corridors,
desolate like dried pores.

A promise I seek,
and demand resource

The Price of my Prudence, is
like the woes of an unrequited
man's rose. Stolen by thorns.

My mind is a mixture of rues.
Blue and promise, stir in my stew.

Bring rain, love, and lice.
I'd never imagined such a night,
where our hands were colder
than satan's omnious ice.

Bring sour, sweat, and tears.
Tear apart my fear, and
lay it down.

Simplicity, we'll wash away your name.
Sleeping, the privilege left you long ago.

Freely thinking, no time for such nonsense.
Counting, numbers elude evasion surely.

Memories like the sandstone of our streetlights.

I see your shadowed face on summer nights,

brighter than the june bugs we crushed

in bare, fearless feet.

Aiding the wounds, while expecting the revival.

I am a man, regret holds me entirely.

Take pages, rip their shreds. Take my book,

And feed it to the fire of the fiercest red.

Easily shown are feelings
of the most delicate tone.
Kept in silence, words can't
suffice in the savor I find
in your eyes tonight.

The gusty winds blow,
your hair like a flock of goats.

Choose your words carefully now condescender.

Open up eyes, so bright and tainted with grime.

Wake up foolish one, your time has come.

Give haste, like fountains of the sourest of tastes.

Waking up, Sombering up to confessions.
I am alone and akin to my own discretion.

Teeter Totter, I sware to you I will never lie to anymore. Dancing around, I'm a fool.

Nothing more.

This isn't a poem, no.
No more, furthermore home alone,
confused? Basically solemn,
where did you go.
Simple words, Secret Souls.
I miss you more than the
most lovely of nights, most

In your deceased eyes where pestilence
and vile pride thrive, I choose not to comply.

To vision, your sight is as narrow as the bending
road through dark hills blackened upon the night.

All the colors of autumn, like the most sacred
of nights 'round the fire, inside and woven
over with blankets, I can't specify.
Over the broken window sill, let's jump.

A change of hands, holding only close
together bring welcomed dew.
Nothing like a first kiss, whose proponets
know these timeless moments,
So lovely and dear. Yet one misplaced,