Prejudice, Lost

Lost prejudice, like a misshapen jigsaw puzzle piece that snaps in and imbues you with that wafting-petal sensation of sad, silent beauty.

Missed Chances

A fistful of joy I didn’t get a hold of it I could have and now that’s A thing to miss It may seem superficial But the real reason why This feeling makes me cry Goes like this I once knew a face The closest thing to grace And I had a chance to give it One more kiss But the kisses came too late For the faithful dance of fate Washed the room in perfect crystals Made of ice You may think the story’s done Should’ve done it on the run But that’s not the way you read The fallen dice Every chance you missed is not Everything you lost is got All just waiting where the wait’s Eternal bliss

Be the wind

Be the wind that shakes off leaf Or be the leaf and fall Or be the stalwart steady tree That stands to see it all.

Into it

Reason keeps you out To follow your heart you must Just go intuit


You’ve got your way of doing things The more you rest, the more it stings You’ve seen it all before a hundred times You’ve loved all sorts of folk there are You’ve written songs and traveled far You’ve forced the meter into empty rhymes It’s lost down in the darkness there Where frosty shoulders chill the air It’s warmer to look for it in the sun They’ve looked before you too, my friend There’s nothing out there in the end This quest is nowhere near being done The seeker and the found must become one

Image courtesy BBC:

I know, little one, your fear is real You’ve heard the screams and you’ve seen the pain The cuts are deep, no time to heal For the wolves are hot on your scent again.   Lady with child, babe to your breast You’ve lost your love and you’ve missed the train You find the shade but no time to rest For the wolves are hot on your scent again.   Your tears have dried on the face of your bride In her shallow grave on a grassy plain Have to save that kiss for the other side For the wolves are hot on your scent again.   Too old to run, too weak to walk Everything they burned lives on in your brain You can tell your tales, but you’ll break the clock For the wolves are hot on your scent again.   Get drunk, my dear, on this patience sweet Time is dead; it’s time for the truth  to play Let the dew on the meadow wash your feet As the angels hunt and the wolves are prey.   Featured image courtesy BBC >>