Briars

I’ve spent months in daydreams,
Where the mountain brooks flow through timbers,
I longed for the briars to pierce my skin,
To know that I am alive with cadence,
Lullabied by the breath of morning,
Stirred by the reflective sighing dawn,
I came to know,
Men were made to be wild,
With heightened senses,
Erasing the hue of artificial smells,
As dew washes away the contempt of solitude,
I am free where only the eagles can see me,
Laid bare by winter’s afternoon,
Drifts of capes dances in the background of fire,
The wood burns as deep as my soul,
As my breath labors for a full moon,
I swear at daybreak,
For I wasn’t done drifting in dunes,
I search for gratitude in the tension of remembrance,
As the new day incubates, the cauldron of memories.

Photo by Catalin Dragu on Unsplash

Barna

Clustered in her independence,

Her rocky edges holds the artist’s heart,

A sea of change in her Gaudi atmosphere,

Small bites along her back,

Charms the weary seamen to her shores,

Barna they call her,

The vibrations of a thousand guitar strings,

Hums the embrace of an American’s heart.

Echo

Subway windows fogged with containment,

Bach is the ocean that holds the eclipse of life,

I am no more darker than light;

Bliss has put to sleep a creeping moon,

A man who was the sum of his missing parts,

Becomes an adolescent art project,

A halt settles on a counter melody,

A duel of sorts creasing into a crescendo,

This is beauty I reckon:

Where a disheveled desk holds the great

mysteries of life,

They say Bach is played for God,

And we are so lucky to receive an echo.

Cachonne

The destiny of skies and objective ties,

My wrist have grown weaker by all means,

Pushing the weight of artificial suffering,

To horizons that fade with every tinge,

As a man’s skin hardens,

I clasp my hands in religious fervor,

As the Chaconne hums the sorrow of my past,

Am I a man in spite of my weakness,

Or is that my respite?

What’s A Hero?

The lighted cries of homecoming and well,

Flesh crusted, cake with a million yard stares,

Epics written on the back of men,

Not old enough to dream. What’s a Hero?

What is it for me that I should see?

Old medals that rusts, and a gut that purges,

The drunken youth that fuel the absurdity…

That Parades could drown out the massive strain,

We’ve come home to a war of our own,

Man vs Man, Ideas vs Ideas,

Dogma vs Domga…what’s a hero?