Image src: Michael Thorn

Awaiting dawn at the end of night,
I dream of the same empty spaces.

Poking at traces of fading reminiscence,
charting an old course in a destined flight,
I wake up to the same old dreadful silence.

Drifting in the comfort of daily sunlight,
I mingle in irrelevance with same old faces.

Escaping from survival in rabid frenzy,
sliding into a shell of solace in quiet,
I strangle in a cycle of relentless ennui.

Edging closer to the final precipice,
I languish in comfort of restful apathy.

Flapping towards that inevitable flame,
Trapped in a burn of blinding luminescence,
I surrender to a fate of familiar endgame.



The sun is setting in the valley,
behind sprawled pastures of fading light.
I no longer fear the shades of night,
but I clearly see the end in sight.

I came from the land of heaven and hell,
of off-the-beaten paths of wrongs and rights.
over the mountain tops of fleeting heights,
into this serene site of peace and quiet.

I feel no warmth from the departing sun,
I have no angst and I have no desire,
I feel no pain and I feel no pleasure,
I see no reason not to retire.

The sun will rise in the valley tomorrow,
this green grass will greet the morning sky.
I may not feel the heat of that first light,
but for now, I will rest here, my body and I.

For a while now, I kept the journey alive,
reclined merely to utopias of dreams bygone.
Now I see the stars sparkling in the dark,
I feel a breeze on the ground I sleep on.

Now is the time for fading memories to rest,
I have no regret and I feel no delight.
I no longer fear these shades of night,
as I can clearly see the end in sight.


He keeps waiting for that distant sun to arrive,
remnants of that warmth still glowing bright,
a vision of burst of light in his pliant mind
keeps his soul alive through the rein of fright.

Even as his large round eyes stare in ghastly horror
at malice in the living and all pervading strife,
and familiar ghouls of wicked rougues and monsters
forever loom large over the cradle of his life,

he peers through the mist into the dark clouds,
soaked numb to the marrow to the world of despise,
seeking that light of compassion from a flaming star
of balmy fantasies drawn in a ride of helpless cries.

He keeps sinking deeper into the abyss of time,
a silent rage of being, between wind and water,
a prisoner in an orb of demons in angels’ clothes,
he breathes in air,  of dejection and despair,

but within that sinister gloom of despondence
he kindles a ghost of illumination alive,
of those golden rays that bring his deliverance,
he keeps waiting for that distant sun to arrive.

Morning on Market Street - painting by Mike Hill

Crisp, looming chill arrived at the scene,
riding on autumn wind that came bristling in,
hugging sun-drenched walls of a bustling city
buried in busy humdrum of the workaday din.

Oblivious to falling leaves of road-side trees,
emerging from their edifice of ambitious schemes,
indoctrinated workaholics hustled through avenues,
chasing castles in air for amelioration of dreams.

Engaging masses traded with eagerly dealing vendors,
ambling through the market, amused by the street clown,
with wheels of city commerce spinning as planned
– a center of social labyrinth is this downtown.

Tugging into their rag-tag coats and scuffed shoes,
are loitering street bums in nooks and corners,
bracing for a painful winter, craving for joints and smokes,
begging for a buck or two from sight-seeing foreigners.

Raging locomotives clamored along congestive roads,
with tripped up commuters trapped in self-made riddles,
as touring day-trippers gazed at marvels of mankind
– conquerors of wild, architects of these concrete jungles.

In an aimless journey with destination unknown,
arrived a lonely traveler by flippancy of fortune,
– allowed to be on his own, left to survive all alone,
he found a haven in a teeming maze, living in isolation.

Buried in this amalgamation of hopes and miseries,
are the audacious few, laughing at those anxious and agitated,
living in fleeting joy-rides on wheels of instinct,
mocking at the upright uptight with tribulations inflated.

On an autumn day ushering season’s changes,
dreams and despairs converged to display,
in a specious sense of power and intellect,
social nexus of species, its civilization in play.

photograph from: Mathew Tauzer

I am a residual fleck in an ash cloud,
over the crater of a simmering volcano,
dancing in the smoke of gushing plumes,
breaking free from the molten glow.

I am a skipping stone over a still pond,
propelled by the flick of an aimless hand,
happy to skim over shallow waters,
spinning to get to the surface land.

I am a soaring hawk high above the peaks,
gliding from dawn to dusk and into the night,
swooping into snatch an unwary prey,
just to stay alive for a listless flight.

I am a lone wolf out of a raging pack,
wandering the wild in reclusive release,
away from the crowd in search of self,
in a discording journey longing for peace.

I am a gentle droplet of a descending torrent,
pouring down the skies in a turbid haze,
soaking the soil and joining the deluge,
of streams and rivers merging with the seas.

I am a solitary leaf on a withy branchlet,
born out of a stem revived by spring,
brought back from dead in time of light,
with a song of hope and a shine of green.

I am a shuffling amoeba beneath the decay,
just a pocket of energy of forms diverse.
I am a passenger along in a fleeting ride,
just a random speck of matter in universe.

Angst - lithograph by Edvard Munch (1896)

An afflicted romantic in love
is perishing in a poison pit,
in a dereliction of self,
with a destruction of spirit.

Feigning eyes of a pretender
luring the heart to survive,
swimming in shallow waters,
longing for a hope to revive.

A dreamer stuck in a fantasy
in a blazing glow of silverlight,
is buried in a beguiling fancy,
of a fickle flight in blind night.

Waiting for a sign to arrive
from the void of nugatory eyes,
glossed in the color of pretense,
with images of idyllic paradise.

An idealist is defying a compromise
of settlement to aggrieved inurement
as turpitude of character on heart
that beats only to perfect sentiment.

From the depths of the worldly ordeal,
is kindled a hope of perfect journey,
clinging on to delusions of mirage,
trudging through the sands of ruin.

A castaway spirit searching for its soul
is looking for a current to ride,
wading in the water of life,
to reach its land on a shore tide.

In a graveyard of emotional angst,
in that land of utopian guise,
is where that cherished soul lies,
it is where that cherished soul dies.

Edvard Munch - Anxiety (1894)

I was among the spectators watching the race,
too young to compete, with promise and upside,
cheering all the runners keeping up with the pace,
sneering at the weary falling by the wayside.

Stories were written, with glories of the legend,
who blazed through the tracks, stronger and faster,
showing the light, for the rest to comprehend
the pitfalls to avoid and techniques to master.

I couldn’t wait to join soon as I came of age,
youthful and vigorous, rearing to contend,
dreaming those dreams, of taking the stage,
following the path of that hero to the end.

Friends to be picked, foes to be downed,
schemes to be made, plans to be laid,
nary a second thought threatening to confound,
the primal appeal of a race quite unswayed.

I jumped into the race, blind and bold,
the race seemed fun, the race seemed a blast,
difficulties unseen in spite of the stories told,
from the eternal myths of the victories past.

The race is tough, the race is not fair,
for the rules are written, and the rules are broken,
with confused runners lost in despair
and lofty aspirers, ruthless and driven.

I lavished my youth in the trials of the pursuit,
leaping over the hurdles with the eye on the prize,
bruised and battered by the obstacles enroute,
visions of fancied grandeur, a figment in my eyes.

Old and tired, and barely in the race,
I questioned the purpose, muddled and befuddled,
running in a maze, in a pointless chase,
a life of unworthy rigor reducing me to a puddle

Gasping by the wayside in this perpetual race,
I’ve now foregone the chase of its transient end line,
fables of delusion fading in a twilight daze,
with once laureling legends cleansed off my mind.