Oh how beautiful, the crow will fly far.
Its slick black wings outstretched into the fire.
The feathers will turn to ash. This is war.
I cannot be inspired without desire
living with knowledge of this evil. Wearing
myself down thinking someone will care
that this world is cruel. It is despairing
to know nothing will change. How do you fair?
There have been too many days that I cried
for what has been lost. They tell me to run.
Hang from the rafters commit emotional suicide.
Ignore the tragedies stare at the sun.
Life is bliss if you let the light blind you
but it is brutal if you do not stay true.
Another Georgia Spring
The weather is atrocious
a mix of winter and summer.
As the rain brings in a cold front,
I am dreading another March like last
when the days drag on. The pain
lasts longer and longer without
the same intoxicants that kept me warm.
What storm will this year bring? Perhaps,
a slow death before the trees have had
time to breathe life into new leaves.
The sky still tinted gray; A dreariness
slipping to earth. Slipping into the void
that you are. A nothingness left
to wander the streets like an 19th
century poltergeist looking for home
and calling out for the lover you lost
to the war. What does this life have in store?
Certainly not the Calabasas dreams
that are only bought with parents’ money
or friends standing in your high beams.
You’re just high again pleading for an end
to your grandiose imagination and