Blank Verse

Given to those who bear their fall with grace,
if not otherwise forestalled by dreams,
or lost in throes of unforeseen sin,
and broken down -- ashamed of their own world,
is a promise of redemption planned by hosts
of hosts. A welcome respite from the norm.
A representative autocracy,
made possible by a shared belief
in our inability to change the past.
WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TRYING TO DO WITH THIS?
An inspiration made credible
by voices that will echo through all time.
A PLAN PERHAPS TO CHANGE WHAT ISN'T THERE?
Forgiven by those who fell before and rose
to meet the challenge face to face.
YOU KNOW 'TIS MORE FRUITFUL TO LIVE IN BLISS;
Rather than ignore what can't be seen,
Exist in confidence of life beyond;
IN CONTINUED IGNORANCE, THE WORLD DESPAIRS.

Famine

Its effects are more frequent now, this...

famine.

Not in any way that can be physically verified, but the hunger still persists. An inexplicable hunger...

A hunger that leaves me drained, wishing for some kind of fulfillment. There's no reason for it. I've tried looking for one, I've tried...

But the only satisfaction I find, comes from isolation, from indulging in the very thing that continues this drought.

Me.

That's what it comes down to. Me. My issue, my resolution. Perpetuated by a constant need to let others make my decisions for me, hoping that something will come of it.

But I need to make way for me.

There's something to be said for knowing who you are, and I know that this isn't me. As much as I try to remember it, shamelessly revel in what I thought would re-inspire it, nothing happens.

There are only the smoke and mirrors of a roadie-assisted light show, phantasms wisping in and out of beams of light no thicker than wire...

I see them for a moment, but by the time I've reached out to hold one, I touch only humid memories, tantalizing in their clarity...

They knew me.

Without having to try, they knew me, even before I did. It surprised me when they cared. But they did.

I see them, whispers of them, in the faces of people I know.

But for some reason...

I'm still... looking.

Synchromesh

It comes together, words as cogs and spiraling, spring-fed pistons, fastening a dissonance in dissolution to the explosive rendition; an informality unencumbered by the racketeering majority.

Prosody and metrical misalignment, a conspiracy of one, but only one? Blistered fingertips, callous, unscathed, feel naught but the insensitivity of aloofness - no longer needed, no longer heard amidst the repetitive drive. From start to perceived finish, a single runner, marathoning to the utmost end, breaking the rope set still by the same hands that started the descent.

This isn't meant to be heard, nor understood, he thinks. Lyrical if only because of its obscurity, he hopes. Written only so it's there when so much has passed without fill, he knows.

Oppressed by a lack of oppression. When life's this good, what's left but a confession...