Unfound

Where one looks,
One does not find.

Revelations and fears
Of being hopelessly behind.

A loss or a win,
One must wonder,
How did this all begin?

Two Voices

Two Voices

In the mind of every man lay,

That truth and reality,

Of what his heart truly does say

Two voices linger after,

Each without a thought,

To the needs of their master,

Who was never told,

That he will become,

Forever the subject of their laughter

Together they speak,

And when it becomes harder to know,

Whichever of them is the weak,

All that is left in the snow,

Does no longer matter. 

Sorry Pen

For what do you write, sad poet?

For whose pleasures does your sorry pen toil?

What words do you think will affect, dear poet,

The deathly ring on our soil?

For whom do you watch and listen, old man?

There is no longer any innocence to admire,

All the little virgins in our lands, old man,

Have long since let their hearts tire

Your poems speak of love and camaraderie,

But when, O father 

Did you last witness a truth instead of trickery?

Is it not, dear father, 

Your very own children who now lay sick in misery?

Your thoughts smack of beauty,

And the reader must watch and listen,

For a love neither true or plenty,

In the words of a single man, lost to his poetry.

Little Else

With little else to say or do,
the mind will flounder and shudder,
while one must wonder who,
if any,
can still make their heart flutter.

with little else to do or say,
and a hint that is only an impression,
the mind is but a ground to play,
endless games of obsession.