wishes are idle effects of good will,
- but action -
action gives blood to intent
and color to monochrome.
The knowledge of not alone,
a hand lent
in ardent compassion
to the point of filled
and warm and asleep.

Syllables are cheap
and facing the onslaught
- of action -
will accept only payment of passion,
the rapid pulse and breath
until you've nothing left
but rattling death,
a small plink in night's deep.

This, though I've never eye to eye
met your face, your gaze,
- spurns action -
tangibility is irrelevant,
useless in stemming the red rivulets
escaping my fist, as it pays
in quatrains and couplets
for few mere seconds
to catch a ride as i'm passed by.

over the din i hear you whisper
but you are to far to hear me scream
- my action -
withered on a road that was uncertain,
in shadow of Beelzebub's oasis.
I am ashamed to die without purpose,
without my lifeblood coloring stains
in these fragile fabrics you've woven
to be ageless.
In memory i is a dream
and in your voice i are many.

i must bake before i am done
and the lips of time open wide.
i may never see you on this one
but there remains another ride.

03/29/2011

Author's Note: Is this thing on?

Posted on 03/30/2011
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Michael