Existential Oblivion

Pleasant Sounds of War

Beautiful sounds from the near dark of dawn

Sleep evades me, without even a yawn

The birds sound jubilant through their bright song

I now know that this ideal has been wrong

They are not rejoicing for the new day

They are bidding their foes to stay away

The males are fighting to protect their zone

No being in nature is left alone

Man is not the only source of trouble

Insomnia has bursted that bubble

Peace is a lie, even in what seems pure

How can we fix what nature cannot cure?

Walking on Eggshells

Cold feet, cold floors - 

creep and crack around closed doors - 

behind which lie our dreams divine - 

if we would only take the time - 

to see the line - 

that which we stand in so fine - 

we would realize the chime - 

of Nature's cry, 

"Are you alive?" 

We walk along a life made of eggshells - 

rarely growing wings to fly - 

above those doors which stand so high.

Undead Hearts

I can easily escape inside my head -
hide away from the dreadful thread,
which intertwines unlike minds,
into a frenzy of blind leading the blind.

There is no avenue down which we can walk,
where people never stop to talk,
with judging fingers pointed all around -
feet never touching the ground.

Their lives are fleeting.
Dead hearts are beating.
Rhythmless souls numb to flight -
will they ever see the light?

Faithless

Time sinks
with each blink
of the eyes.
No more signs in the skies.
Hope is lost amongst us
in our bustling rush.
Faith no more
washes ashore
assurance of our purpose
on the surface
of this ground we walk;
losing eye contact as we talk
to each other, empty,
yet, full with plenty.
We appreciate nothing,
always leaving with something,
pockets never deep,
but humanity is cheap.
Truth we must pay for.
Lies, though, freely pour,
out of our mouths,
just as the clouds
release the rains
as blood into the earth's veins,
sprouting life for us to breathe
into our souls, which will soon float
out into the endless scope
we no longer believe in,
so-called oblivion,
sealing our fates
with muddled slates,
leaving behind
the blind leading the blind,
racing to beat the clock,
still ignoring God's knock.