What’s the outcome?
Computing…
Computing…
Emeritus with the grey hair
Slumped over spreadsheets
of facts and figures
No one knows the day
or the hour, yet the probability
of an end is probable
Physical existence is temporal,
yet achievements tunnel, distort
and make a particle of time
To stretch is life, tugging along
dreams, ambitions and goals
held by the joy of attainment, for
One last finding for the ages
One last experiment,
One more name to include
amongst the sages
Looping, tying, pulling along
each other’s callings, producing
the force we all tap into
every star minute,
every planet hour
Uma
If he knew how to play with words
maybe I could Care Moore
beyond the way he looks at me
with wanting eyes,
glazing over my smooth physique
words rumbling in my mind
like an impromptu Barraza,
a charming man with deep brown eyes
read me one of his pieces,
Sera Tony, while my favorite song
married through my senses,
a Holy Matrimony of rhythms,
underneath the glaring lights
surrounded by a symphony of sounds
some clunking glasses, some busying cutlery,
what if the stars aligned for this fine night
full moons, jumping over Wicca brooms
or such uncanny sights,
catch him staring again
with such a warm countenance
in his smile, teeth majestic like ivory
eyes full of the innocence of life
still inquisitive and playful,
still sublime
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Hollow
Tempest, high and rising tides
of ashy skin and crackling bones
smashing against wobbling homes, as
vacant eyes pierce through dusty clouds
amidst the sound of hungry growls,
a barren land of no smiles or rapturous applause
just dry mouths that moan for more
black ink bled on white paper
a desperate call for new tenses
broken pens to numb the pain, drowned
in a sea of labored steps, marching aching flesh
blistered by the dampening tears of spiraling events,
there is no one else to punish
but that which stares back in despair,
with this pen, why this pain, why this then
like everyone else, deluded with greatness
howling pretenses soon swallowed
by the deafening silence of unmoved faces,
this art form consumes its victim’s whole
leaving a trail of syntactic errors and grammar lows
empty stages of trampled dreams
‘who is this? who is this?’
‘who is there?’
nobody, nothing,
not at all,
no one is there!
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