In Ruins

I often wonder what was more foolish – we built something on cracked joists and broken beams with expectation of strength or created a façade of beauty to hide away the ugliness inside.

Only specters remain of what would have been. A forgotten time – a forgotten place built on the promise of potential. Cracks in the foundation only wilt under pressure and strain – imploding on one’s self. We laid waste to our hopes and dreams only to reveal the decay and untold truth inside.

Desolate reminders that everything has its time and its place and nothing lasts forever, only snap shots of memories captured in time.

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The Grave

Grave

So many years ago

You gave me a shovel

Told me to dig my own grave

Instead I decided to bury my pain

Threw down the shovel

Got on my knees

Put my hands on my head

Told you to shoot me where I stand

I’d rather be dead

Than to be a martyr in your game.

Image courtesy of flickr

Love Spelled Backwards

Shakespeare

The world yearns for retreat

Having been burned

Another lesson yet learned.

 

Lessons eagerly foretold

For when a child cries

They tell no lies.

 

Reflections seem upturned

Drowned immortal fears

In a bottom-less glass of beer.

 

The less we know

More we age

Consumed by critical rage.

 

Against time we race

Realizing how our great Savior was replaced

Throwing caution to the wind.

 

For it brings a tear to my eye

Mouth left with permanent distaste

See the Glasgow smile on my face?

 

What we once knew

Thrown out in upheaval

Love spelled backwards is “evol.”

The Magic of the Night

WalkingThroghTheNight_shop

Hardened hearts are permeated by the magic of the night. Visual cues and songs remind us of the joys of being young. Those younger days filled with dreams that stairs led to golden palaces in the sky. Palaces built upon pillars of anticipation and stones made of hope.

Longing to be understood, we no longer understand as we become our parents. Disillusion and regret topples the pillars and stones of our golden palaces in the sky. From the toppled sands of our time, our own children rebuild the palaces of years past. The pillars and stones become their own dreams and anticipation. We build moats and barricades hoping the new palaces are protected from the fallacies we made.

All palaces crumble as mortar, pillars, and brick always turn to sand. The beauty of sand is that what once was dissolved can always be returned with the heat of passion. How we are reminded of this as song permeates our thoughts reminding us of the magic of the night.

 

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