Clockwork

Time again for a night filled with thoughts
A dark blanket turned white with soundless words
Embroidered upon it with pain
-staking precision
I'm forced to ask myself: why?
No answer. The question is lost amongst the words

My thoughts lit up by a sphere of colored light
Still, nothing makes sense tonight,
Any night; of course it's not right

Too many people.
As I try to figure out where I stand
I stumble, everyone is there, no one takes my hand
Then again you can't expect more
Everyone already holds a hand
Yes, see it there on the dark blanket?

The city is people. The people are trees.
The wind blows through the trees. A whistle, a moan
A longing. The trees want the wind. The trees resist the wind.
The trees take it, they bend.
Day; night. Close; open.
I am the city. I am the trees. I am the wind.
Mark the time and state of being.

No, I feel pain but I am not hurt
I cannot see what plagues me
The world must not exist, it is not here now
Come back?
Uncertainty
The blanket holds no words

On A Hill

Noise pollution, air pollution, pollution of the mind
The run-down cottages on the edge of town
Antiquities of a past life
Scream tranquility
Deafening no one in the city

Except those who live there
There in those cottages on a hill
A mind of color cannot see black and white
Accept those who live there

Storms have minds, and who can blame them?
We did it
And never considered consequence
The storms are mad with lust, with regal authority
In their mind, cleansing the world of the minority

Sanguine, wanton, fault within
The storms have no morals but are without sin
Beyond our understanding, of course
Those at fault cannot hear the past
The future is just as silent to them
For their voices thunder across the land

And the world will fall before us!
Kneeling to our regal authority
A cause we have so moral and righteous
For the progress, for the preservation
Of Society

Paradox of the Hour

An obvious end is lacking
Its manifestation is so logical
But illogical to those who should have known
A paradox of the hour, one could say
That we didn't believe it would happen
But knew it was coming all along
It all makes too much sense

But beyond that some of us knew
And some of us currently live it
This is beside the point however because conversely
We know nothing for knowing everything
A wise assumption is made folly with enough agreement
The truth is made false simply by belief
For the mind makes everything what it is (to us)
It all makes too much sense

Events transpire constantly but only some are remembered
Lengthy but noteworthy
Time seems to be only what we recall
And when and where those events fall
Could possibly end all
But regardless of what happens there will always be
An endless wall
It all makes too much sense

An obvious end is lacking
A paradox of the hour, one could say
Because for some reason, day by day
We all wait for what we expect to say
Knowing we'll be surprised by what is actually
Not surprising in any way
Beyond that some of us know
And some of us used to live with it
A wise assumption can be taken at face value
And the world is just fine
It all makes so little sense