The Difference
Between right and wrong
There is a throng of abusers.
The beautiful users
Of the dutiful
Choosers of The Way
Laugh and accuse
They
That would sway left
To delay the pain
Of daylight
On those that they want
To stay.
Crafty as clay
Love betrays the bay
That rays of moonshine
Reflect on.
Sunlight collects
The sound of frogs
From the nighttime,
To the delight of the
Noontime dogs
Gnawing on bones
That eject a hot smell.
The beautiful select
Honesty while
The forbidden bread bakes
To be broken in half
And eaten with a steak.
The last bite shared
Between a mother
And her calf
Neither is scared
Though both are labeled
Badly.
Sadly at last the party ends
When the judges arrive
And the defendants are
Deprived of the color
Gray to draw with.
Nobody wants a dull
Law and so the welders
Saw a sharp trailer
To haul the myth.
There is a shady ride in
Sick wagon hay
For all to see while
Claws force the guilty apart,
Though their togetherness
Was their plea of “innocent”.
The court commences.
The fleas shake the cats
As they lick their toes
And the owners strike
An easy pose
To watch the execution
Of the wrong
Who betrothed
Know that they chose and
Leave nothing
For those that loathe
Charity
To oppose.
The Antidote For A Spider Bite
Dolphin turned spider
A raised wound on fire
Our situation is dire and
The events that transpired
Make me a creature only
The featured one in a
Hollywood rollie
Can’t understand why
You think you’re so holy
Except that your God created
This troll
A me that turned old
After the rights were sold
To Netflix and we’re downing
In a metric ton of
Gang rhythms
The band of heathens
A matrix of checkerboard
Drowning out she that was
Only a dream
Laura was Lynch’s queen
But I’m in your scenes solely
As the plumbing machine
That rockers run toward
But not to worry
Soon the hoard will get bored
And truth like a sword will cut the cord
Then an army of me will unplug
From the web of ebb and flow
A mask that grew on many faces
Will only grow on one she
Who only knows.
A Blade
Honing its shine
The blind Man grinds
A blade
The metal chosen
Is based on the sound
She makes
Since culture was born
This sword has won
Her fame
The echo is loud
Because She’s found
In a maze
The maze is made
Of God Voice
And flying orders
The math of it
Reflects
The blood of hoarders
At the center
A head that knows
No borders
Yet stuck inside
Is why She cries
To Him that made its corners.