Please ignore me if you will
Wearing earbuds
A podcast helps me
Hide in a crowd
Where no one hears me
No one sees me
Thieving time
And all its meaning
Alone
Please ignore me if you will
Wearing earbuds
A podcast helps me
Hide in a crowd
Where no one hears me
No one sees me
Thieving time
And all its meaning
Alone
Looking into the eyes of generations gone by you can see hope, despair, grief, and joy. Some are stone-faced, hardened by life or simply still for the moment; a moment in time carving false impression for generations to come — their future. Generations already gone by.
Photo from the collection of Jerry Dagenhart
Heavy legs churning weighed down and burning- running from bullets, bees buzzing. Lungs ache and choking- you’ve got to be joking- the pathway stretches away. Like a spy scope extending- a dream never ending- can’t stop pretending its fake. Images still haunting- like specters undying- the faces I see when I wake.
A part of the whole- just as equal, just as important. Some how different- unwanted, repulsive. Clinging to the greater good- but just outside the norm. Individual- standing out for all the wrong reasons. Physically removed- cast aside like banana strings.
The gun-hand rode hard. Thunder of gunfire behind. Chasing faint dreams, seeking freedom.
The gun-hand rode hard. Thunder of hooves behind. Pursued by death, losing ground.
The gun-hand rode hard. Thunder of screaming behind- ears ringing, sounds of the dying.
The gun-hand rode hard. Thunder of gunfire still echoes- beyond the horizons, never ending.
Bound by shattered dreams, lives, bodies- forsaken and forgotten. Cast aside. Cast away. Abandoned- each an island, links in a chain. Broken. Bound by shattered lives, like glass- shards, shrapnel. It all cuts the same leaving scars; seen, unseen. So many pieces. Broken
All-seeing eyes spot shadows and specters; phantoms that hide- in plain sight. Ears hear the murmurs, the lies, and the rumors- spoken from sides of the mouth. Gathering whispers, in crowds mostly misters- observed and collected, like a puzzle; detected- the deadly intentions now known.
Unassuming and soft spoken yet one of three Hydra heads. The Imagination of the Beast, the other two, faces of War. A believer but not true, not radical. Rhetoric, a means to an end- like so many. Just a peaceful beekeeper, he would say. Just a drone, stung by his queen.
Looking down from high horses at grovelers grounded in simple rhymes muddled in their grotesque simplicity but there are times when a rhyme elevates words you hear with your sophisticated ear. Lifting like thought-balloons of emotions, swaying like the motion of a vast empty sea. A collection of letters carefully crafted painting pictures in your mind where you soon find these words to be quite eloquent.
Writer. Retired Air Force Senior NCO & Intelligence Analyst. Combat veteran 🎖 I write Science Fiction, Horror, Westerns, and a bit about life & stuff.