Is it just a buzz that gets me by?
Drowning fears, cares, worries and qualms
in cups of joe?
But at night, when jittery drugs fade,
shadows hid arise in force,
choking joy and mimicking hope.
I'm crying to God to let me know
just a few more steps along my road.
The tension, strain and stress is too much.
To dwell on it long takes my song;
the dance I jive to get me by;
to lead, to read and hold the tide.
Oh...to explode! To let it flow free!
To curse caffeine and its sugary dream;
to speak in truth, no subtlety or lie;
to hold a hand, caress a cheek.
My God, my God,
please let me free.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
A Man's Past
The man whose greatest fear was not knowing his place
just looked at his past to get a taste
of all the things that got him on,
got him off and got him wrong.
And he sees from the poems, the stories, the songs,
how far he's come and where he's gone;
his leering hopes — oh how they've fall'n
“How will I read this poem,” his thinking starts on,
“when today is swept, and new days dawn?
Of wisdom, or folly will the words seem drawn?”
His past is made of naive worries,
dreams that hurry through and along life's oddest flurries
that give living its truest life.
just looked at his past to get a taste
of all the things that got him on,
got him off and got him wrong.
And he sees from the poems, the stories, the songs,
how far he's come and where he's gone;
his leering hopes — oh how they've fall'n
“How will I read this poem,” his thinking starts on,
“when today is swept, and new days dawn?
Of wisdom, or folly will the words seem drawn?”
His past is made of naive worries,
dreams that hurry through and along life's oddest flurries
that give living its truest life.
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Hike
East over Oregon's rugged Cascade Mountains, down into a dry land as much brown as green, through the windy gorge of the great Columbia, and finally into the hills of the Wallowas. Here, at a wooden footbridge over a shallow, winding and frigged river they call the Lostine we begin our hike.
Four miles lay before us. Not a long hike; about three and half hours if we keep good pace. But every mile will be well fought for. The trail is steep and wild; only half-tamed by works of man. A short, easy hike to a rocky crossing of the river sets our pace. Across it, a field of tall grass and bright flowers awaits. We cautiously cross the river, with more than one of us soaking our feet as we slip on the slick rocks.
Onto the real trail we then begin. It is steeper now; thinner. The forest encloses us, and occasional sharp, rocky drops on our right warn us of misstepping. We come to the first switchback, a place where the trail turns around and sharply inclines, taking us above ground previously covered. There will be eight of these before the top. A short rest, a sip of water, and then we continue.
Legs weary; breathing becomes a fight. Jagged, salt and pepper speckled granite pebbles crush methodically underneath our boot-laden feet, orchestrating the unconscious rhythm to which we hike. Larger, less weathered stones often jut from the trail, only aggravating our already burning thighs. A hike more like a rock climb, we often think.
But then, out of the shadows of hallways of pine suddenly blossoms a field of luscious green. The violets, reds and deep blues of various flowers stand scattered about the refreshing meadow, laid out in a pattern known only to their maker. Soft dirt replaces hard stone beneath our feet. Cackling chirps of untamed birds sound out from above. We're still far from through, but softer scenery gives us some reprieve.
We reach the final switchback an hour later. But victory seems small against the path ahead. Now, the path inclines sharper than it ever has before. The trail becomes like a trench at some points; a rocky creek at others. We are led through lively, colorful fields at the foot of powerful rocky mountains. Birds sing and fly above us. But we hardly notice. The trail fools us with crests that seem to mark the end, but once reached only reveal even more obstacles ahead.
Another ridge is reached. But then a bend. And suddenly, unexpectedly, a valley lays before us. A splash of blue lays on its far side. A lake; our destination. Steep cliffs of white stone rise threateningly around the isolated pool, as if guarding its serenity. A sudden decline in the trail raises our spirits and reinvigorates our legs. A thin dirt trail leads us down through fields of green and along, over and beside thin, rapid streams.
The blue looks more green now as the lake draws near. A rocky outcrop must be traversed before we can reach the lake's shore. Coming over the rocks, we arrive at a trail leading around the lake. Thin, reddish-brown forms dart in the water below—brook trout as far as we can tell.
A patch of grass flanked by a vast field of tall, stacked stone on one side and a crop of pines on the other, is where we finally sit down to rest. Plump, honey-striped bees hop from blossom to blossom around our feet. Large horse flies buzz annoyingly around our heads; mosquitoes stab lustily into our flesh. The tangy aroma of bug spray soon taints the sweet mountain air. A cool breeze ripples the opal lake, gently shifts through the trees, and tingles our skin as it wraps around our weary bodies. A subtle “plop” disturbs the calm, yet seems not out of place. We glance at the sound's origin, seeing only a pulsating ring of water. Another near it, this time preceded by a flash of silver, confirms our hopes: the fish are hungry.
As we fish, eat and rest bare-footed upon large stones, gray clouds emerge over the steep rocks around us. Light rain dampens the land, but we do not seek cover. The air is cool, but that's just fine. The fish are biting, and our cares couldn't be farther.
Four miles lay before us. Not a long hike; about three and half hours if we keep good pace. But every mile will be well fought for. The trail is steep and wild; only half-tamed by works of man. A short, easy hike to a rocky crossing of the river sets our pace. Across it, a field of tall grass and bright flowers awaits. We cautiously cross the river, with more than one of us soaking our feet as we slip on the slick rocks.
Onto the real trail we then begin. It is steeper now; thinner. The forest encloses us, and occasional sharp, rocky drops on our right warn us of misstepping. We come to the first switchback, a place where the trail turns around and sharply inclines, taking us above ground previously covered. There will be eight of these before the top. A short rest, a sip of water, and then we continue.
Legs weary; breathing becomes a fight. Jagged, salt and pepper speckled granite pebbles crush methodically underneath our boot-laden feet, orchestrating the unconscious rhythm to which we hike. Larger, less weathered stones often jut from the trail, only aggravating our already burning thighs. A hike more like a rock climb, we often think.
But then, out of the shadows of hallways of pine suddenly blossoms a field of luscious green. The violets, reds and deep blues of various flowers stand scattered about the refreshing meadow, laid out in a pattern known only to their maker. Soft dirt replaces hard stone beneath our feet. Cackling chirps of untamed birds sound out from above. We're still far from through, but softer scenery gives us some reprieve.
We reach the final switchback an hour later. But victory seems small against the path ahead. Now, the path inclines sharper than it ever has before. The trail becomes like a trench at some points; a rocky creek at others. We are led through lively, colorful fields at the foot of powerful rocky mountains. Birds sing and fly above us. But we hardly notice. The trail fools us with crests that seem to mark the end, but once reached only reveal even more obstacles ahead.
Another ridge is reached. But then a bend. And suddenly, unexpectedly, a valley lays before us. A splash of blue lays on its far side. A lake; our destination. Steep cliffs of white stone rise threateningly around the isolated pool, as if guarding its serenity. A sudden decline in the trail raises our spirits and reinvigorates our legs. A thin dirt trail leads us down through fields of green and along, over and beside thin, rapid streams.
The blue looks more green now as the lake draws near. A rocky outcrop must be traversed before we can reach the lake's shore. Coming over the rocks, we arrive at a trail leading around the lake. Thin, reddish-brown forms dart in the water below—brook trout as far as we can tell.
A patch of grass flanked by a vast field of tall, stacked stone on one side and a crop of pines on the other, is where we finally sit down to rest. Plump, honey-striped bees hop from blossom to blossom around our feet. Large horse flies buzz annoyingly around our heads; mosquitoes stab lustily into our flesh. The tangy aroma of bug spray soon taints the sweet mountain air. A cool breeze ripples the opal lake, gently shifts through the trees, and tingles our skin as it wraps around our weary bodies. A subtle “plop” disturbs the calm, yet seems not out of place. We glance at the sound's origin, seeing only a pulsating ring of water. Another near it, this time preceded by a flash of silver, confirms our hopes: the fish are hungry.
As we fish, eat and rest bare-footed upon large stones, gray clouds emerge over the steep rocks around us. Light rain dampens the land, but we do not seek cover. The air is cool, but that's just fine. The fish are biting, and our cares couldn't be farther.
Kunark
This is a short story based on the online roleplaying game Everquest II
___________
Peace has alluded me since I first landed on Kunark's rough shores. Even the ship ride from Antonica's docks to the continent was enough to jolt me awake every few minutes. The water is thicker, angrier around Kunark. Redder. Perhaps the land was spared the worst of the Cataclysms all those years ago, but it has been rent in other ways.
I had barely set foot on shore when I was petitioned by agents of Teren's Grasp – the remnant of what was once the illustrious High Elf colony of Firiona Vie. The populace, though resilient, quivers in fear; trapped between two powerful and ruthless empires. Soft-skin is endangered in Kunark, so the outpost has eagerly welcomed and employed the northerners who have been frequenting its docks as of late. Most certainly they have been too welcoming. There is more to allegiance than skin. I would know...
It did not take me long to learn the law of the land. It did not take me long to learn that in Kunark ideals have a way of being discreetly swept away for convenience's sake. In the moist, eerie jungle of Kunzar; in the rugged, spider-ridden plains of Kylong, innocence is not given haven. One does not leave Kunark without enemies. One does not leave without killing.
Still, Kunark has its appeals – especially for one such as I, tossed between so many worlds as I am. In the land of the lizards, old world fidelities are trivial. The Iksar, the Sarnak, even the Teren care little for the politics of the Shattered Lands. In the ruins of those ancient empires there is no Qeynosian; there is no Freeportian. Not even I, a Tier`Dal, am given a second glance. Not even in the City of Qeynos, to which I have sworn absolute loyalty, am I allotted such indifference.
But politics there are in Kunark, and I learned to the play their intricacies with the cunning for which my race is known. My Dark Elf heritage is not entirely lost to Marr. I found that the Sathirian Empire, though vast and commanding, is not without its dissenters. Indeed, many of its commoners speak of the capitol of Sebilis with disdain. Much like any peasant who is exploited by his protectors, these villagers' loyalty is circumstantial at best. And there is something else: Among the dizzying array of factions in Kunark, I found a people who call on Marr. They call themselves the Reet, and many are held captive by the soulless slave merchants of the empire. They are a clan of primitive frogloks of which I have not seen in all of Norrath. Indeed, I had only read about such a species in the tomes of the Concordium.
Oppression. Slavery of Mithaniel Marr's children. In the murky mist and gray lines of Kunark, there, against those injustices, perhaps I could take my stand and find my purpose in this wanton land. Maybe, with all the innocence lost in my unscrupulous dealings in Kunark, I can find redemption fighting for the cause of the frogloks and for the oppressed peoples on the fringes of the Sathirian Empire.
Maybe ideals can be found in Kunark. But perhaps they must take a back door.
___________
Peace has alluded me since I first landed on Kunark's rough shores. Even the ship ride from Antonica's docks to the continent was enough to jolt me awake every few minutes. The water is thicker, angrier around Kunark. Redder. Perhaps the land was spared the worst of the Cataclysms all those years ago, but it has been rent in other ways.
I had barely set foot on shore when I was petitioned by agents of Teren's Grasp – the remnant of what was once the illustrious High Elf colony of Firiona Vie. The populace, though resilient, quivers in fear; trapped between two powerful and ruthless empires. Soft-skin is endangered in Kunark, so the outpost has eagerly welcomed and employed the northerners who have been frequenting its docks as of late. Most certainly they have been too welcoming. There is more to allegiance than skin. I would know...
It did not take me long to learn the law of the land. It did not take me long to learn that in Kunark ideals have a way of being discreetly swept away for convenience's sake. In the moist, eerie jungle of Kunzar; in the rugged, spider-ridden plains of Kylong, innocence is not given haven. One does not leave Kunark without enemies. One does not leave without killing.
Still, Kunark has its appeals – especially for one such as I, tossed between so many worlds as I am. In the land of the lizards, old world fidelities are trivial. The Iksar, the Sarnak, even the Teren care little for the politics of the Shattered Lands. In the ruins of those ancient empires there is no Qeynosian; there is no Freeportian. Not even I, a Tier`Dal, am given a second glance. Not even in the City of Qeynos, to which I have sworn absolute loyalty, am I allotted such indifference.
But politics there are in Kunark, and I learned to the play their intricacies with the cunning for which my race is known. My Dark Elf heritage is not entirely lost to Marr. I found that the Sathirian Empire, though vast and commanding, is not without its dissenters. Indeed, many of its commoners speak of the capitol of Sebilis with disdain. Much like any peasant who is exploited by his protectors, these villagers' loyalty is circumstantial at best. And there is something else: Among the dizzying array of factions in Kunark, I found a people who call on Marr. They call themselves the Reet, and many are held captive by the soulless slave merchants of the empire. They are a clan of primitive frogloks of which I have not seen in all of Norrath. Indeed, I had only read about such a species in the tomes of the Concordium.
Oppression. Slavery of Mithaniel Marr's children. In the murky mist and gray lines of Kunark, there, against those injustices, perhaps I could take my stand and find my purpose in this wanton land. Maybe, with all the innocence lost in my unscrupulous dealings in Kunark, I can find redemption fighting for the cause of the frogloks and for the oppressed peoples on the fringes of the Sathirian Empire.
Maybe ideals can be found in Kunark. But perhaps they must take a back door.
Sebilis' Gates
This is a short story based on the online roleplaying game Everquest II
_________
The little guy never stood a chance. Four arrows now stuck out from where its decayed facial features used to be. What cursed, artificial “life” was left in it compelled its arm to give one last swing before lying still. A drawn out, gurgling croak somehow emitted from the creature's exposed and rotting vocal cords before finally falling silent.
I glanced back at our party's two female rangers and smirked. “I think we got him,” I said. “Though I think your aim is getting a bit lazy, Cerilynn. You seem to have missed the center of this one's pupil.” I shook my head in mock disappointment. She rolled her eyes and casually returned her notched arrow to her quiver and her bow to her shoulder. She waved me on, insisting that I continue through the dark corridors of the city. Dispatching of undead frogloks was not why we had come to Sebilis. But still, I could not help but make a bit of fun out of this grim business.
I narrowed my eyes and locked onto my next two targets. Two more undead froglok guards, deceitfully appearing devoid of any spacial awareness, stood just 60 meters away. One stuck its tongue through a hole is its jaw to slap a fly that had landed on its exposed bicep muscle. When it looked up, all it saw was the bright purple glow of my spell before it was smashed back into the wall in front of which it stood. His companion let loose a stuttering croak before hopping toward me, its spear leading the charge. I waited until the point of the weapon was only inches from my throat before I dropped my right shoulder and spun to the side, slamming the edge of my shield into the back of the creature's head as I completed my turn. Stunned, but still caught in its momentum, it hopped sideways into a wall.
I ran back from where I came just as the first froglok recovered from my spell and had began hopping into the fray. I rounded a corner and stopped, waiting for the two frogloks to catch up. As they came around the same corner, I sat down. Being the shell of creatures they were, they did not even give notice to my strange behavior — nor to the female Tier`Dal ranger who just emerged from the shadows. Two quick arrows were their wake up calls. The arrows hit with such force that both of them were slammed into the corridor's walls with a loud squish.
Persistent, they staggered toward me still. Just as one was about to chop into my skull, a dagger protruded violently from its gut, spraying some sort of putrid yellow fluid onto my armor. The dagger pulled out and the creature fell, revealing to me our halfling, rogue companion. A quick smirk was all he gave before ducking, spinning and back-slashing with his off-handed weapon into the right leg of the other froglok that was about to come down upon him. The creature fell down before me. I still sat, glancing into its lifeless eyes for several moments. Was anything left in there? Or was this truly only a shell? It tried to rise, but two more arrows slammed violently into the corpse, pinning it to the floor.
A faint breeze of air blew past my face as the undead froglok's head slumped. I could have sworn the creature smiled.
I stood up and made a show of wiping off my armor. The others lightly chuckled. There would be more stained armor before the day was done. Finished with the lifeless pawns of Sebilis, our goal was now the city's Mercantile District. There we would draw flowing blood; there we would fight an enemy afraid to die; and there we would disturb the comforts of the overconfident Sathirian Empire.
_________
The little guy never stood a chance. Four arrows now stuck out from where its decayed facial features used to be. What cursed, artificial “life” was left in it compelled its arm to give one last swing before lying still. A drawn out, gurgling croak somehow emitted from the creature's exposed and rotting vocal cords before finally falling silent.
I glanced back at our party's two female rangers and smirked. “I think we got him,” I said. “Though I think your aim is getting a bit lazy, Cerilynn. You seem to have missed the center of this one's pupil.” I shook my head in mock disappointment. She rolled her eyes and casually returned her notched arrow to her quiver and her bow to her shoulder. She waved me on, insisting that I continue through the dark corridors of the city. Dispatching of undead frogloks was not why we had come to Sebilis. But still, I could not help but make a bit of fun out of this grim business.
I narrowed my eyes and locked onto my next two targets. Two more undead froglok guards, deceitfully appearing devoid of any spacial awareness, stood just 60 meters away. One stuck its tongue through a hole is its jaw to slap a fly that had landed on its exposed bicep muscle. When it looked up, all it saw was the bright purple glow of my spell before it was smashed back into the wall in front of which it stood. His companion let loose a stuttering croak before hopping toward me, its spear leading the charge. I waited until the point of the weapon was only inches from my throat before I dropped my right shoulder and spun to the side, slamming the edge of my shield into the back of the creature's head as I completed my turn. Stunned, but still caught in its momentum, it hopped sideways into a wall.
I ran back from where I came just as the first froglok recovered from my spell and had began hopping into the fray. I rounded a corner and stopped, waiting for the two frogloks to catch up. As they came around the same corner, I sat down. Being the shell of creatures they were, they did not even give notice to my strange behavior — nor to the female Tier`Dal ranger who just emerged from the shadows. Two quick arrows were their wake up calls. The arrows hit with such force that both of them were slammed into the corridor's walls with a loud squish.
Persistent, they staggered toward me still. Just as one was about to chop into my skull, a dagger protruded violently from its gut, spraying some sort of putrid yellow fluid onto my armor. The dagger pulled out and the creature fell, revealing to me our halfling, rogue companion. A quick smirk was all he gave before ducking, spinning and back-slashing with his off-handed weapon into the right leg of the other froglok that was about to come down upon him. The creature fell down before me. I still sat, glancing into its lifeless eyes for several moments. Was anything left in there? Or was this truly only a shell? It tried to rise, but two more arrows slammed violently into the corpse, pinning it to the floor.
A faint breeze of air blew past my face as the undead froglok's head slumped. I could have sworn the creature smiled.
I stood up and made a show of wiping off my armor. The others lightly chuckled. There would be more stained armor before the day was done. Finished with the lifeless pawns of Sebilis, our goal was now the city's Mercantile District. There we would draw flowing blood; there we would fight an enemy afraid to die; and there we would disturb the comforts of the overconfident Sathirian Empire.
Northward dream
A night spent stirring
A day spent dreaming
And endless cycle of thinking and learning
Singing songs to drown out the worry
Convincing myself I'm not in a hurry
Is who I am who I can be
Is I all I have, all that I need
A note goes higher
My thoughts go deeper
The tune in my soul goes out to the reaper
Of all things that are lost and are gone
Then I look to the north and see it all wrong
A day spent dreaming
And endless cycle of thinking and learning
Singing songs to drown out the worry
Convincing myself I'm not in a hurry
Is who I am who I can be
Is I all I have, all that I need
A note goes higher
My thoughts go deeper
The tune in my soul goes out to the reaper
Of all things that are lost and are gone
Then I look to the north and see it all wrong
Quiet
Quietly falling to my knees; In a room not much larger than its key.
Success meets distress. Harmony meets calamity.
In quiet surrender I raise my head. But not too high or I'll hit my bed.
Is it here? Or is it there.
It is me? Or is it she?
Ambitions left unmet; time not used left to regret
...breathe
A peace unlike others--comforting like a mother.
Yet more inside, more true.
Not subject to the bias that comes from the womb.
Yet still I wonder; still I write.
And hope to God the End's in sight.
Success meets distress. Harmony meets calamity.
In quiet surrender I raise my head. But not too high or I'll hit my bed.
Is it here? Or is it there.
It is me? Or is it she?
Ambitions left unmet; time not used left to regret
...breathe
A peace unlike others--comforting like a mother.
Yet more inside, more true.
Not subject to the bias that comes from the womb.
Yet still I wonder; still I write.
And hope to God the End's in sight.
The Weary Sleeper
Greeted by warmth, departing to heat
The sudden cool breeze awakens my sleep
Images of fantasy find root in my eye
Resting again I can only smile
God's cool grace transcends the strain
But my roaming thoughts condemn the tame
If it is not peace that I seek
Then please find me sleep
And tomorrow maybe, I'll find to keep
The sudden cool breeze awakens my sleep
Images of fantasy find root in my eye
Resting again I can only smile
God's cool grace transcends the strain
But my roaming thoughts condemn the tame
If it is not peace that I seek
Then please find me sleep
And tomorrow maybe, I'll find to keep
Beyond doubt's shadow
A shadow of a doubt has never felt so real.
Clouding my senses the cliché takes face.
Of more than just a saying but a darkness I feel,
A shade overcoming the brightest of days
The 12 o' clock sun only hides affliction--
Only a distortion of truth that gives me small rest,
Before extending it out in another direction.
Only extinguished by passing the test
Of surrender to self, where God's way is the best.
Clouding my senses the cliché takes face.
Of more than just a saying but a darkness I feel,
A shade overcoming the brightest of days
The 12 o' clock sun only hides affliction--
Only a distortion of truth that gives me small rest,
Before extending it out in another direction.
Only extinguished by passing the test
Of surrender to self, where God's way is the best.
Cold hopes
The frost on my breath,
On the quiet commute
To a place I hardly know.
The sights, the sounds,
The people on the streets,
With their humble bench seats.
Are my dreams so set,
Like this weather: so frozen?
Or more like a cool breeze, blown?
I'd like to think I'm strong;
Confident and founded,
Yet I can't help but think,
Is it ever-grounded?
On the quiet commute
To a place I hardly know.
The sights, the sounds,
The people on the streets,
With their humble bench seats.
Are my dreams so set,
Like this weather: so frozen?
Or more like a cool breeze, blown?
I'd like to think I'm strong;
Confident and founded,
Yet I can't help but think,
Is it ever-grounded?
Into a tunnel I fear
A daily rush of abject striving,
Surrounded by a hope of surviving,
All I keep so sweet and precious,
Locked inside for fear of chiding.
A stroke of pen so loose, untidy.
A feinted word I find unabiding,
To any thought of human flair,
Rather a whisper of deep despair.
Peace in longing, strength in the tear,
Defines a life bent on ambition,
Called by God to a place undared.
Please, excuse me, if I am scared.
Surrounded by a hope of surviving,
All I keep so sweet and precious,
Locked inside for fear of chiding.
A stroke of pen so loose, untidy.
A feinted word I find unabiding,
To any thought of human flair,
Rather a whisper of deep despair.
Peace in longing, strength in the tear,
Defines a life bent on ambition,
Called by God to a place undared.
Please, excuse me, if I am scared.
Sunset to Moonrise
A shadow struck moon rising over a misty land,
Gathering shape as the sun is pushed down.
Night gives birth to twilight,
Twilight to shade.
I see the sun beaming but don't feel its heat,
I'm waiting eagerly for the final beat.
Morning brings dew,
And hope, too.
Gathering shape as the sun is pushed down.
Night gives birth to twilight,
Twilight to shade.
I see the sun beaming but don't feel its heat,
I'm waiting eagerly for the final beat.
Morning brings dew,
And hope, too.
The clock's handbag
It's a blur,
Isn't it?
Life, I mean.
You skirt along like a midnight dream.
Tossed.
Pulled.
Lost...
Stuck in a current of wind whipped waves.
Blown like a leaf in the Autumn breeze.
It's funny,
Isn't it?
How time lies.
The days look so long, yet always they fly.
Here.
Gone.
Fear...
That time will slip through my fingers.
That memories will only serve to remind
Of life lived;
And love--lost.
Isn't it?
Life, I mean.
You skirt along like a midnight dream.
Tossed.
Pulled.
Lost...
Stuck in a current of wind whipped waves.
Blown like a leaf in the Autumn breeze.
It's funny,
Isn't it?
How time lies.
The days look so long, yet always they fly.
Here.
Gone.
Fear...
That time will slip through my fingers.
That memories will only serve to remind
Of life lived;
And love--lost.
Empty halls
A slip of cold to numb the ache
Of friends gone far and empty walls
By plane by car, or truck, or train
In all the parts just not these halls
Where memory stays to sit and bake
It's there regret and thanks will brawl
It's true enough that time moves on
And people come and others go
But the space they filled is never gone
Just like the stage after a show
Swept and cleaned, echoing of song
But hope of encore continues to glow
Of friends gone far and empty walls
By plane by car, or truck, or train
In all the parts just not these halls
Where memory stays to sit and bake
It's there regret and thanks will brawl
It's true enough that time moves on
And people come and others go
But the space they filled is never gone
Just like the stage after a show
Swept and cleaned, echoing of song
But hope of encore continues to glow
Headlines
On Monday a senator takes a bribe
On Tuesday the governor speaks a lie
On Wednesday the executive gets a raise,
And later that day cuts the working man's pay
On Thursday an editor buries the lede
On Friday the tax man comes to thieve
On Saturday that mother lied to her kids
And came to church Sunday
To hear the pastor fib.
On Tuesday the governor speaks a lie
On Wednesday the executive gets a raise,
And later that day cuts the working man's pay
On Thursday an editor buries the lede
On Friday the tax man comes to thieve
On Saturday that mother lied to her kids
And came to church Sunday
To hear the pastor fib.
Life's accomplices
In depths of loathing
Life and its accomplices
Time and money
I've found one small thing
To keep me from running.
Light words and laughs
Of those who care
Without even knowing
Caught unaware.
I'd be remiss, yes
Awfully quite chilly
To neglect my thanks
That buries self-pity.
Life and its accomplices
Time and money
I've found one small thing
To keep me from running.
Light words and laughs
Of those who care
Without even knowing
Caught unaware.
I'd be remiss, yes
Awfully quite chilly
To neglect my thanks
That buries self-pity.
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