no fault of their own…

life leaves battle scars
soul’s deep emotional wounds
that transcend rational thought
symptoms are hate and anger
pressed upon the innocent

 

vessel…

these are not
my emotions
this anger
and fear
is older than
my years
upon this earth
it is the taste
of dried blood
and the dust
of those once
enslaved
freed by death
to wander with
whatever winds
reach into soul
to reanimate
their words
so their sorrow
and stories
can be retold
these are not
my words
so expect
no apologies
or
absolution
of social sins
the dead
cannot make
such offerings
to the living
they can only
recall the sins
you’ve lived
and
the pain
you’ve bestowed

ground zero…

 

once again the streets
will become the battlegrounds
unabated greed
blinds rich from consequences
but shields no one from anger

 

following the march hare…

following the march hare

there’s no time to waste
days are short and hours few
anger has no place

anger has no place
at my tea party table
there’s no time to waste

there’s no time to waste
must be on my way i say
anger has no place

observations from a broken window…

observations from a broken window

there appears to be
no particular pattern
to the way the glass
has shattered
all around my feet
it’s difficult
to determine
the angle
of the throw
or
the thrower’s
size and weight
just another
stone of hate
hurled through
the stifling smoke
of anger
a stone
anointed
with the rancid oil
of their blind belief
a belief in words
transcribe
and
compiled
by men
i wonder
though
how often
they’ve thrown
their books
of faith
through
windows