A long walk, though cold outside. Tis Yuletime after all. No longer fall.
A wide eyed stroll along a riverside, through the countryside, to watch the ebb tide.
My heart dressed in black.
Just to talk to the wind. Forced Rhymes, to hide the fear.
Fist clenched, no one to hit... Nothing would be solved anyway...
Thick skinned and disciplined, I seek; I fight. I ride. Time I bide?
So I walk, speaking aloud for all to see, spilling my Soul to the night.
My steed of steel locked away, A trip to the auction house He must ride...
Lawyers won latest battle.
Winds do blow... So walking, listening, singing I go...
Asking what is right? Am I wrong, to value freedom more than cash?
Now, My spirit filled with Voices; Airy speeches; Breezy utterances;
Draughting sounds; Blasting noises; Emunciations, Pronunciations;
Expressions; Languages; Rhymes; Whispering words.
Yet, I have no one to talk to... Except the wind.
Swirling thoughts; My mind assaulted by a gale of Memories. Hate.
A hurricane of broken dreams, and unreached goals, encompass me.
No ones fault but mine. Hence the birth of shame.
Depressed. Sunk. Humbled? Angered!
Dispirited. Disgraced. Impelled? Ire! No desire...
Positive thinking beaten upon by Caesar needs.
Mothers up bringing lessons I will try to abide.
The Truth inside. How does my life rate? If only I could ride...
My Soul surpressed by my self owned duties; responibities; and obligations.
Answerable payables coincide with Ulcers blood.
Accountable desires conflict with Essene teachings.
Oh! To keep up with the Jones... Wheres the freedom in that?..
Materialism is killing my slowly. As, debts speed the process up.
Scared covered hands write checks, for bills I am not sure I can pay...
Never have I had this fear of a man. My honour on the line.
So I will sell my Soul, for to pay the Devil... Again I have lost, at this
Soulless game. White, 21, male and free to have no say...
So, I scream into the night.
Expelling energies; Contemplating suicide. However, I am not that weak.
Still the wind would blow....
Would my death teach Christian Capitalist anything? What of my boys?
As the Gods of Gold laugh... The priest Midas cries...
Did your Jesus die for this?
Did Osiris???
Ledgens of old, tell of the folly of the battle for toys. But, did I listen?...
I go on alone... Voices drown out the sound of falling footsteps. Steeltoed
boots do fall heavy.
Each step, a step toward the Christian World. This world where men are
judged buy that which is owned. Ceasars Nazis armed with Christian pieces of
Paper, wishing; hoping; dying to take me away.
Destination: a hotel with orange pyjamas. My crime being poor, and divorced.
God in a house with pretty glass, filled with folks in pretty clothes, hair
cut, and no beards. Only!
So much, for being made in an image.
As children freeze in cardboard boxes, another VCR is bought.
Powerless. Ashamed. This game, I too play, so sad to say, acquiring things;
as if they will pay my way into Heaven. And, the wind still blows; And, I
cry. Tears for an Iron horse. A thing. My friend.
Who can understand my Pain, but the night; and the wind? So I tell... And,
the wind still does blow...