Square

Square shoulders, good for square dancing.

The Desperate

Tempt not the desperate

There are times when

They just need guidance

No judgement cast upon them

Wrong doings should be over looked

For desperate times

Call for desperate measures.

Who are we to judge?

Haven’t we all been there before?

Time

The passing of time is something I loathe and detest
Wasted hours spent watching the clock
The moon will rise on time, whether I wait for it or not
Day breaks up the night at the right interval
I watch it come as the sand continues to fall
Time ravages everything it touches
Young women wither and die like flowers in a vase
Men reach their prime too quickly
Children grow up to fast, their longing for age too quickly revoked
No one is safe from the ticking of time
We all end up in the same place once the hours have taken us
Death is nothing, but the passing of ill-spent hours

The Blood Between Clicks

At dawn the bells toll
Dispelling the gloom of the nightly booming parade
the explosion of shells in the streets and the screaming of sirens
The dawn is for the dead, not the cautious frightened faces that peer out the windows,
hoping that the city has not been blown away
That prolonged hour when the sky begins to change
Inky darkness bleeds into the horizon
Leaving behind the tired sun who drifts into the sky

The shimmering orb brings forth the living
those left behind to carry the burden of the dead
Lives cut short by the hammering of machine guns
The distant ticking, that constant clicking, the sound of the clock of time
For some it stops to soon, others plead for its final click

Young men, nothing more than saplings, cut down before they could stretch out towards the beaming giver of life
They spend a heroes eternity in darkness
Never again will they feel the warm glow of the sun

The inconsistency and fragility of life is forgotten
by the people, the milling herd, the civilians
those who's cups are always half empty
They know nothing of the sacrifices made for them, honor is just another word

Alone, on a distant shore, your son dies
His heart bleeds out
On his lips, three words
---"For my country"

In Death

If I were to die tomorrow,
to expire, depart, croak
I would like my words to carry on
become eternal
Let my voice be timeless in the words I spew forth
Should I be remembered for who I am,
who I truly am, not this facade I project,
it would be a tragedy
Let me be remembered as a poet,
as a creator of whimsical ideas
of beauty within the pages.
Remember me not, outside these crisp clean pages, 
forget who I am,
I create an illusion I can not live up to
in death I shall be remembered
as beautiful.