Pale

“The pale of life hold the most color.”

Not all wars are visible

the paled battles are the most vicious.

Not all tears reach the ground

some turn into rain drops

watering the earth.

Hunger is gray begins in overfeeding

turns the stomach into poverty.

Most voices are poor,

turned into paintings

sold as art to the highest bidder.

Faith can be empty and full of self righteousness ignorant to the capabilities of a lower nature,

Oh blind of heart

bleached of sight

do you not know?

every leaf falls to the ground and must wither that the tree continue to grow.

The pale of life hold the most color,

unaffected by the rising tides

never to wither

finds growth in the storm

changing her seasons.

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The mirror always looks back

The mirror always looks back..

There are some things you never forget, the mirror always looks back.

The sound of empty rain drops hitting a tin roof.

The wild flower that had died the moment she was touched.

The sound of the old mans empty breath as he stands at the bus stop.

The stance of the young who have life figured out and the eyes of the old, grasping to still understand what life and humanity have become.

The youth will speak of humanities warmth and the old will show you the coldness.

Realizing everyone is as loyal as they are disloyal and you are no different.

The music to a song that no longer has lyrics.

That moment you look in the mirror and see yourself staring back.

The warmth of the moon and the coldness of the sun.

Being attracted to the storm.

Waking up to sleep again.

The unspeakable peace when all is chaos around you.

The unspeakable chaos when all is peaceful around you.

Being lost to yourself.

People make love and relationships meaningless, love and relationships cannot corrupt themselves.

When heartache saved you and love destroyed you.

When the night shone as the day and the day resembled the night.

Envying the freedom of a bird.

You wake on day and understand, you have placed more chains on yourself more then anyone else has.

Real poetry is graffiti.

You will beg to remember while forgetting.

The mirror always looks back…