Purgatory

The coward stands idly, surveying

what could have been.

Knowing full well now that the aim

of his soul is lost.

Not crying or screaming because he sees

the hand of fate.

Words spoken so loud he is deafened,

devoid of the touch of sound.

He reaches and grasps to find nothing but

the weight of the world on his chest.

The light consumes his eyes to blackness,

his senses now draining from his mind.

The hand points sternly to cast him aside,

leaving him to wither in this

perpetual state.

©2012. All rights reserved.

Misery

I can see the panic in their eyes

as they struggle to find something,

anything.

They will work on through the night

in hopes that they will not belong

to misery.

Their steps now reduced to a shuffle,

they trudge and wallow, mocked by me.

As their limbs now slowly pound the pavement

Searching for the dreams that have

wasted to the sea.

Hungry and frail, they gaze upon the sky

hoping for a miracle to end this mindless

ridicule.

But it is all their own, the only thing they know.

So another day dawns with the hope that

it will be their last.

©2012. All rights reserved.

Streets

There was something about them. The way they felt, their smell. They turned the soles of shoes black. They were filled, even if they were completely empty. They gained their soul from love, hate, passion, opportunity, blood, spit, sadness, anger and joy. It all bled together to forge a layer of grime that kept anyone from truly being able to know their soul.

Their touch was not forgiving. It was always rough and scolding. And even though they rejected all those who fell to them, countless minds flocked to adore them, be welcomed and to walk along them in glory.

Only those who lived on the streets came close enough to know them. They became blackened and stained like the streets, they smelled like the streets. Their skin became rough and pocked like the asphalt. They had so much in common. And still the streets would never reciprocate, they remained an indifferent host even to those who had nothing left but a place on the streets.

And every day they died there. The streets claiming their souls, offering their bodies little more than a cold, hard slab to the once warm flesh which itself was slowly morphing and becoming cold and hard. Only in lifelessness did they finally become one.

©2012. All rights reserved.

New Life

It's been over a year since I have done any updates with Blogger. While life itself has not changed much, my ideas and desires have - to an extent. The process of hand writing short stories and poetry has been an outlet as of late, one which has brought me great frustration and pride.

As I continue to write, I plan to type up some of my work to Blogger. I am hopeful for consturctive feedback. Please enjoy and bear with me as I do some updating.