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Category: Journey

I Started Seeing Skeletons

I started seeing skeletons on the street the other day
Not clean, clinical, comical, classroom ones
But stinking, putrid corpses where rotting corrupted flesh
Hangs in stinking, putrid strips
The puss of a thousand dreadful sins dripping in their wake

I started seeing skeletons on the street the other day
Their hollow vacant eyes hiding hollow vacant lies
Hiding evil done and good undone
Inhaling hypocrisy, exhaling insincerity
As they crawl through painted gilded lives

I started seeing skeletons on the street the other day
Where faces were, bigotry remains
Where hands were now deception lingers
What once was flesh is now duplicity
Arrogance like skin wears them well

I started seeing skeletons on the street the other day
Smelling their lust, their greed, their fear
As I walked among these living rancid dead
One with them, part of them
A fallen soul in a fallen world

I started seeing skeletons on the street the other day

08/02/2017

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Passing By

How many years have these stones
Here stood?
Mute watchers of hurrying seasons
Here where once lived voices
‘Neath turf and heather roofed
Lie now open to storms hungry soul
Windows where eyes once gazed
On walls and ferns and burn below
Now lie open to the clouds
Like needle eye unthread
All is silent now
Except for winds harsh howl
Garden grazed by black faced sheep
Lichen grows on fireplace
Where peat a family kept warm
All is cold now
Untended
Unheeded
As I walk on

18/09/1998

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Suburban Hell

As I stumble through this existence
I wander past
Rows of stark stone prisons
Encaging sad suburban souls
Within their lifeless, faced-brick cells.
They mete out their unhappy existences
Behind tired chintz masks
Vying with each other
In uselessness
And emptiness
Trying to be the first
To new levels of unhappiness.
They seek to pacify
Their material gods
With plastic offerings
Lain before a brushed chrome altar.
They have the same oneness of mediocrity,
Of outward decency
And inward moral gangrene.
They talk of the weather,
The news,
The garden
And inside they lust
For fornication
To the world they are virtuous
And to the universe nothing
Forever NOTHING.

13/07/1990

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