Waiting

The waiting is the hardest part— waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the smoke to clear...

Portrait of the Sun

I lay down finally among brambles and found my shadow already there bleeding from an open vein...

The sun dawns a different shade of red over this land, dead and reborn...

Eyes out of night beyond transcendence come alive in a charade before the masses...

They came in through cracks in the walls, crawling down to hide in the shadows and surround me with their silence...

The lights seem to go on forever in the spaces between waking souls rising out of dreams of electric highways...

You’ve been bleeding ink for miles on your dead man’s trek across the desert...

Into a great black silence go the seekers who left their voices behind with the temptation to speak out...

Somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, I learned to love the corruption...

The lights up ahead grow near but never seem to coalesce beyond vague outlines over the highway...

If only the wall was built higher before I began to climb, then maybe I would have given up before I ever came near the top...

It seems like someone knew where the lines were drawn. At some point they must have known, only now they’re lost beneath life spilling over...

I was there when the shadows fell lucid for a breath before tossed beneath the surface and lost in technicolor visions of the stars...

Hills against the wind press on into night over the peaks and away to the last descent...

Here I stand where the earth breaks away, waiting for the night to die...