Could I train myself to ignore the boredom,
And excuse my own insanity,
For just one moment of sheer delight?
Could I stare out the window,
And watch the young girl learn to ride her bike,
With glowing ambition,
And cold determination,
I find myself envious of the child,
For her mind is not her prison,
So that one day she wakes to find her mind clouded,confused.
A small ant encased in a pickle jar prison,
Small crumbs of her dignity scattered around her glass cage,
Even the small delights of life

I am torn

exquisite as the wings of a butterfly and more

eloquent and poignant then the activists blood, poured out on the streets of his cause

with frightening clarity I see to the core

stop the ride, silence the cries, give me pause

pandemonium has spawned

there is no more nor no less than what we can hold

trapped by our imagination, sold

by our soul to this higher power

the devil is lying in wait

behind the gate

there is no final hour

"I am so happy you came," Reginald Clarke said, as he conducted Ernest into his studio. It was a large, luxuriously furnished room overlooking the Hudson and Riverside Drive.

Dazzled and bewildered, the boy's eyes wandered from object to object, from picture to statue. Despite seemingly incongruous details, the whole arrangement possessed style and distinction.

Feeling the pain,
Seeing the blood,
Not knowing how to heal either,
Looking on and hiding the shame,
Wondering when the tears will flood,
Seeking the truth, finding lies and wanting neither.

Life in it's endless progression,
Tearing at your soul,
The fear welling from your memories,
Retreating, hiding, burying yourself in regression,
The heart within beating slowly, dark and cold,
Spending your nights in empty graves, dwelling in cemetaries.

Who are you? What to do?