Before You Know It

When the world is going bat-shit crazy
and neo-nazis hurl hate,
governments turn religion into missions
and everyone misplaces faith,

the centre goes spinning
and, all around it, fire unfurls,
peripheries start to burn
in the hands of bigots and churls,

stand aside and think of love,
or the idea of it, and its chance
at being the winner at this war,
Or even a random, shitty dance;

and you look at what gadgets spin –
dyslexia the new face of the game –
and kinda hope that, if love exists,
he will wake and remember your name;

but you get caught in your own bias
and cast aspersions for your right;
and, before you know it, you hate, too,
and become a part of the fire and fight.

So, on you go, eddying and gaming,
blasting the AIs, and earning loot,
and, before you know it, the love you sought
is now some sex that is moot.

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Here I Am – A Moon Song

Here I am again.
Looking at the moon.
Somewhere in my heart
There beats a familiar tune.

She sings to the sky –
She shines through the night.
I have loved her before –
I have been loved by light.

The sun struggles to rise;
This love triangle I know;
The moon lies and lies and lies;
But the sun burns me so.

So I crave for the dark
And, when the sky is night,
I yearn for her crescent
That waxes so bright.

But I’ve heard her song,
It may cut like a knife,
The illusion of love
Is much cause for strife.

The moon shall wane,
She will break me with pain;
The sun will laugh and laugh
When he rises, unfailingly, again.

I used to wish upon a star;
But wishes are games;
When you wish upon stars,
Who remembers their names?

They are but suns,
That will someday die,
Or will just erupt
And shoot out of the sky.

I rely on the moon.
She dispels all noise.
She wanes and she waxes;
But never destroys.

I look to her for counsel,
She never gives it clear;
Since I turn to her often,
She holds me very dear.

So I sit quiet and stare,
I do not complain,
She knows me by now,
She soothes most of my pain.

She is my muse,
I depend on her face,
She trumps the sun,
For she taught me grace.

They Warn Me

They warn me I speak too much of my heart:
I am too vocal about what I think:
I mention every thought right at its start:
Way before the mind and heart form a link.
They say I am too childlike and confess
All that I know; let my truth rule my voice;
And let my conscience turn its duress,
On certainties, both traumatic and nice.

I know not what power compels me so,
To hone neither tact nor diplomacy;
I love, I laugh, I cry, I feel, I show –
I may do it all quite complacently.
No burden of regret makes me believe;
I go on wearing my heart on my sleeve