Too Late

I Don't Like This S h i t

T o d a y  . .

is one of them days
that is so  f u c k e d  up

    that it almost seems alright

    days like this make me think
                         I need a shrink

    or I’m on the brink
    of some insane madness

        laying on a couch
                 sipping latte
            
        telling lies
        being analysed

                               by someone
    ...

Fracture

Truth is a blade
that cuts deep

    even when the wound
    is dressed in lies
    
        It does not dull
        does not bend
        
        a spine of obsidian
        in a world of smoke

        
                        d e c e i t  .  .
        
the traitor’s only scripture

     chants like a hymn
     carving deceptions into trust

      until th...

The Gravedigger's Lament

Beneath the weight
of bleeding hands

    the gravedigger bends ~

    too busy to sleep   
    his hands calloused and cracked
                        bear the brunt of war
    
            each shovelful of earth
                        a silent scream
                    

  a testament to the scale of death
        a ledger of loss etched in soil
    
    
    The smell of dea...

Elegy For a Falling Sky

When swifts and sparrows
                        rain like ash
           
           
         The eagle blind ~
         
         
        mistaking shadows
        for the sun’s last rites

        their wings once hymns
                        now fractured
             
        its golden gaze

Fossils

verdict etched
in the static of stars

    We are fossils
    in the making

                 Can’t be saved
               already damned

                            kneeling
         at the edge of a cliff
waiting to worship the fall

         Can’t let go
         by holding on

          g r a c e  .  .
        

                   ...

Echoes in an Hourglass

dry rosemary and regret
a shrine to what we swore
    
             memories a sieve
    echoes in an hourglass
    
    we bury what we are
    
    then dig up ghosts
    and call them holy
    

the beast stumbles
over its own shadow

                        cracked
     burdened by a truth
     no knife can flay
      

dining at bountiful tables

exquisite place settings                                &#...

The scent of Wreaths

The scent of wreaths
      permeate the air
    
    a funeral
    for truths never buried

                                 petals ~
           crisp like parchment
    
            w h i s p e r i n g   .  .

                what is mourned
                is not yet gone

        carve the ears of asses
         &...

Barks Bite

All the roses
have turned grey

             the dandelions
    have withered away

             g r e e n e r . .
    
      is not the grass
      on the other side

      weeds grow
      in the cracks of walls
                     like dissent
      
      
        t u m b l e w e e d

        roam the streets
        where joy once danced
   

        ...

Not a Slave

How am I a slave ~

if my mind is free
          unshackled
           unchained

                           n o r m a l  .  .

               is an extremist's
                     point of view

      a different kind of poetry
        an alternate philosophy

       premised on                                 ...

Reality

I'm convinced that reality
is nothing more than

            a n   i n c i d e n t

        of multidimensional
                        extremes

© mingoáo