Pick Your Poison

Pg. 58 of an Unwritten Memoir

We were restless, 

it seems, 

to ascend

and to be justified 

in our silly little ruts 

of identity.

We had been programmed, 

filtered of our instincts

and left to abscond 

from temptation.

Now, 

 in this burning shard 

of what safety remains 

after the rise 

of global aggressions, 

humanity winces 

as toxic smoke 

fills our veins 

and the Sun

is black in the sky.

We know, 

of course, 

that it was indeed 

the fault 

of all the pollutions, 

the endless wars in Asia, 

and the meltdown 

in Iran.

What we could not 

have predicted, 

however, 

was the ambient 

sense of regret

for our brutal 

lack of preparedness 

and tact.

Here, 

in the sickly wisdom

of the 23rd century,

we hold on like vultures

to the dwindling threads 

of our humanity;

the ice was our master, 

and we became slaves.


Rough Around the Edges



to swine, to kings, to rough rotten things,
my allegiances stand on their own.
to fear! to spite! to more lonely nights,
left to worship my temples alone.

well it could be worse,
and it could be over,
and i would be free 
to sail as i please.
but without me mates,
wats the point of the days?
cept to sit around hoping to change,
o to sit around waiting to change.