The New Muse
The New Muse, the Blue Muse different from the last.
With flawed logic, and flawed mind, and life that’s fading fast.
She disrupts all abilities I might have in the world of dreams.
She disrupts my plans of domination and my survival or so it seems.
The New Muse, The Blue Muse.
She brings no army simply herself. and with herself she brings death,
upon a single wing of metallic feathers, hazardous to my health.
She is made of the unknown, by the unknown.
The New Muse, The Blue Muse.
She is a mystery. Is she is a puppet who cannot control the other puppets.
Or is she an unlearned puppeteer yet to be handed the strings.
The New Muse, The Blue Muse.
She sickens me with her mystery, and her infernal meddling.
Flawed and broken.
I hate the New Muse...
The Blue Muse.
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I waste my time to bend your mind
and bring you to the ends of time.
To break your back and twist your spine
just so you agree with the thoughts of mine.
To end you without giving a sign,
but I don’t mind for I am Kind.
To bring your kingdom to it’s end.
And kill your every single friend.
I watch them struggle like drowning brim.
And to deaths doorstep I do send.
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In the land of sleep in the land of dreams
where things are not what they seem.
But answers lie and answers die,
to get an answer simply try.
To speak with him who made it all.
Speak with him he knows it all.
And so with answers on my mind
I asked the questions in dream time.
But God’s presence was not there
and my answers were like the air.
Work
The scientist and number punchers say work is the act of moving a thing.
If a man doesn’t work he does not eat.
If a man does work he does not eat.
Work is a poor mans game and a game he plays that he cannot possibly win.
But it’s a game we must play regardless.
Work is life, and life is work and you are your job.
A taxi driver, a soldier, a hitman. Your are your job.
But in the world of work there are the fat cats, the shirts,
the man who calls the shots.
And he assigns work that he himself doesn’t have to do.
He must work all the same, however his stresses are different from yours.
And he is his job, just like you are yours.
America is said to be the land of dreams,
Bus it seems to me to be a land of hard work for others
so they can live their dreams while yours fizzle away...
If you even have a dream.
Endless
The world is the prison and the body is the cage.
But in his own lock up the body can only hold rage.
The rage is the fountain for the fire against the world,
and so the upon it’s surface hates fire will be hurled.
The random walking people, the random nameless faces.
Every where and anywhere covering even lost places.
Alone is what the soldier was and alone he shall remain.
Fighting his battle until the end or until he goes insane.
Insanity though is not a choice, he has already tried.
Over time the insanity in his mind withered and it died.
For he is kind but his kindness is of the kind that’s cruel.
But the war has trained him to know no better and so he is a fool.
He walks on days and days on him wearing him to the bone.
And he wonders why he’s here for who’s sins he must atone.
No answers has he, and none have been given and none are on the horizon.
His questions tread heavily in mind as if stampeded by lions.
His war with life it never ends until the end of time.
But his time is everlong imprisoned in his mind.
Imprisoned in the world to fight the fight, all alone.
Though others soldiers are scattered there, the war each is his own.
No family or friends, such foolish things in battle is dead weight.
The weight of the world on his back already is his fate.
Not the worlds weight, but the load of its forces pressing down.
Unleashing it’s forces upon his head. The enemy all around.
And with no weapon to win his battle his struggle is forever.
A winless fight he is in, for his worse or his better.
And when in retreat he must go to a place to kill his time.
The only safe place for him, the dark place in his mind.
Can't Buy
Money can’t buy happiness. Money can’t buy health.
Money can’t buy life. Money can’t buy love.
Or can it.
You can buy things to make you happy, medicines to make you well.
Tubes to extend your life, people who will love what you have.
Or can you.
Can’t buy freedom, can’t buy peace.
Can’t buy the help you need in the least.
Can’t buy the help I need at this time.
Can’t buy a vacation, can’t buy alone.
Can’t buy a day of quietness at home.
Can’t buy friends to help when in need.
Can’t buy out of the world and it’s greed.
Can’t buy myself a day from the job,
Can’t buy myself away from daddy Bob.
Can’t buy a trip out of town that will go well.
Can’t buy into heaven but can sell my soul to hell.
Can’t buy the world or a simple piece of land.
Can’t pay off the taxes for the skin on my hand.
Can’t pay off the bills for the sweat on my brow.
Couldn’t pay off the interest the world has on me now.
Can’t buy off my blood but my life is for sale.
Crimes the highest bidder because justice is for sale.
Can’t buy a night full of dreams or a night full of rest.
Can’t buy away the bags my eyes carry to attest.
I can’t buy the help I need when I need the help.
I can’t buy the loyalty I need when other loyalties fail.
I can buy the bristol but can’t buy the ideas.
I can buy the ink from carbon made bog, but
can’t buy a nib that would refuse to clog.
There are many things that money can’t buy.
But with the sweat of brow and the destruction of your
body, aches and pains, broken back and
burning knees you can buy...money.
Sweat
Hello again sweat I spoke to you this morning.
Now you’ve come back my body must be burning.
The only sure thing in these days are you,
like death and taxes you’re always there.
Burning my eyes and souring my hair,
you do your job with or with out assistance.
Down on my knee or pushing the lawn,
lifting the copper, lifting the lumber.
You’re always there to bring on the omen
of heat and exertion. Over exertion and stroke.
You run down my brow, my nose, my chin.
Just to let me know, to remind me you’re there.
Our Island
Me and those who would travel with me travel down the roads made by the travelers.
The roads cut into the ground into the grass by the feet of those who would tread down the grass.
For many miles we walked, endlessly walking. Me and the hundreds of thousands of millions.
Going where. Going why. Simply going.
We would come across a man on the road, a man who had seen the same battles we had seen.
He would stop us to inquire where we were going and why.
“We don’t know where we go or why. We just go.”
He would ask if we were going to fight.
“We have fought enough and we grow weary of the battle of others.
And we do not plan to take part in their battles.”
He spoke that the war would engulf the world and all must take part.
“We will not take part, for no one took part in our battles,
and nobody took part for us.”
But who’s side were we on if nothing else.
“We are on no ones side because no one is on our side.”
But no man is an island in this world. He cannot be.
“But hundreds of thousands of millions can, and we are.
We are our own island.”
And we proceeded on our way an island on feet moving towards our island of solitude.
The Plains
A simple walk through the tall grass at night.
The tall grass which remains covered with dew at all times.
The tall grass which never sees the light of day.
It sleeps under it’s ceiling of dark blue night sky with its full moon.
The waist high grass on the hill blows in the breeze and begins to crumble
like so many grains of sand the harsh dry wind blows it away.
The Peaceful hill is worn away by the winds of change until only
the dry arid remains of the red cliffs remain.
The grassless plains of many battles, many dead lay here.
Cut down by foes who were cut down by foes.
But now the plain is calm and quiet.
The Fields
The peace of a million years is broken by the sounds of marching millions.
The marching millions on the edge of insanity.
Only the insane would enter the fields of waist high death.
Death that sways back and forth in the winds.
Death that remains in it’s eternal night under its eternal blanket of dark blue sky.
But the sea of death must be crossed to make way to the plains.
The bare open plains of sand and hills.
The wise men say the Fields are a death trap to those without peace in their hearts,
in their minds. The tall grass cuts like razors, deep as daggers, as it sways in the wind.
Yet the foolish would enter without a second though.
Deeper into the fields deeper into deaths grasp.
Step after step further and further with out an end in sight.
Past the Muse past the lord, past the Blue Muse and her horde.
Deeper they go and deeper they’re cut but they continue on.
And on comes the death of the grass forcing their hands before they reach the plains.
Forcing them to run and fight for their lives through the razors of grass,
through the claws and teeth of death on legs. They run all night, for the Field is eternal...
Until the breeze begins to blow causing the fields to crumble.
And the opponent is seen in the distance.
The Pale Horse
The silence brought on by the foot steps of the pale horse and his rider.
The Pale horse with skin like that of a rotting corpse.
The Pale horse of skin and bones.
The Pale horse who would bring his own army to
The battle Fields. Those form The Fields those from
The Plains. Both armies withered and worn to survive. Both shocked by
The Pale horse and his appearance on the battle field. Behold...
The Pale Horse a horse with skin like that of a rotting corpse.
And his riders name was Death and hell and it’s kingdom followed with him.
And Hell and it’s kingdom rode with him.
And Hell and it’s army hesitated not to battle, lead by the pale horse and it’s rider.
And Death and Hell swallowed up the two opposing armies
And there were no survivors.
And once again The Fields and the Plains were peaceful.
Already Dead
Passing by the people it’s as if they aren’t there.
We pass each other daily with out a care.
If our shoulders touch it’s assumed an accident.
A purpose full accident that neither of us meant.
Simply by not turning to avoid the people maze.
Simply to avoid the people made haze.
Simply stay at home and not interact.
Simply stay alone as a matter of fact.
No man is an island so we should meet,
others in the city on the man made streets.
People are meeting and talking and chatting.
People join together socializing and laughing.
The people they join together like a colony of ants.
To preserve and pro create and increase the human chance.
What I see when I look it does not appeal.
Like peering in Great White’s eyes and I am the seal.
The fear of the many the hatred of the most.
Anger’s symbiote wants it’s Eddie and I am it’s host.
The venom of years the back building of time.
An Iron Curtain to the world, with to shield my mind.
The fight for survival against all the odds,
the odds against human radioactive fuel rods.
They says it’s appealing they say it’s fun.
They say...but to me it’s like firing an empty gun.
I tried if I might I tried if I may,
but They say is still what they say to this day.
I tried to be bothered with their dim insight.
But it was like looking through the darkness of night.
I see only nothing, there’s nothing to see.
What’s fun for them, may be torture for me.
Maybe their fun is in their empty heads,
or maybe my insides are already dead.
Dead to the world and dead to itself.
Dead from loss of oxygen, breath.
If my lack of life is, they’re mentally inbred.
I will happily be rotten inside and dead.