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.