Tell me please
how to win a war.
I used to hope and dream
and cannot anymore.
Every value has been cut.
Every last corner shorn.
The thing left to me
in solemn days forlorn
is the knowledge inherent
to acknowledge and mourn.
Praise be the animal that does not know itself.
That does not know to rip and tear
at personality, hopes, and cares.
That does not look into its mind
and collapse chambers in despair.
False pride pillars fracture
Ceiling dreams crumble
Ambitious walls fall
Self-awareness slumps to the floor.
Hail to the creature that needs only base comfort.
That only wants for outside warmth,
whose heart is only for beating.
That doesn’t fret future states
or ruminate on what should be fleeting.
Not hearing its own brain whisper
words of warning and worry.
Not knowing to fear itself
when looking to save its life.
Little bird pokes his brother
Want to play?
Want to play?
Little bird flaps and hovers
Sunny day
Want to play?
The breeze is calling from the east
Smells of flowers
Smells of trees
Floating nicely with wings at ease
It is day
Come and play
Mother’s calling us to join her
Has food
Has love
Will guide us to fly up higher
Family day
Come and play
Waken brother, rise and greet me
Night is over
Open eyes
Nudges harder at the body
Happy day
Please play
Mother calls out to bird
Come away
Fly away
Wings drooping, bird obeys
No play
Not today
The tunnel gets darker
as you travel down
and your hopes and dreams
are further away.
The light that started at your back
cheering you forward
sending you with waves
of heat and heart
fade as you saunter on.
Soon you are alone
in almost dark
and almost cold
and not quite there.
Yet,
within the darkening is a narrowing
and focusing of direction.
Within the tunnel branching paths
do not exist for you.
A promise made at the beginning
that the end would bring relief.
That you would see the world correctly.
So only hurry down the path
set in stone and worn by eons.
Hurry down the trail
with purpose aiming true
as years before
and decades future will be wont to do.
Reach the end in comprehension
not an exit but a wall.
Life a journey worth the taking
not for finish but the sides
filled with offshoots,
dripping wonders mighty,
textured in life.
The wall is the constant
the hitting of it the reckoning
the stopping the inevitable.
The Proud Dandelion 