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neil daly
Today I stand alone, alone in my release for the ground I built my house upon has crumbled from beneath. The Hell I have survived is as close as my own home and all I placed my faith in has been stolen and then sold. My feet have since grown heavy as my dinner has grown cold and the course I thought I'd charted is not what I've been shown. I've laughed my final thoughts and I have shed my final tears. They've stolen all my promises and poisoned my last years. Yes, today I stand alone to let the world now fade away. May everything that I have stood for outlast this cursed place. My very breath sings its release as my soul departs this land and in the end I'm just as empty as I was when I began.

Colour Me Black
Words scintillate in their own plasticity. Words are maddeningly insufficient. Planets out of alignment spin chaotically yet persevere as if guided by some higher power whose nature remains the eternal mystery. We blend all colors on the satellite palette until they bleed every shade of black under a blackened moon. Tides roll off our shoulders like insults, insulted by faith unreturned, for a faith unreturned is a faith unfounded and untrue. Scream the blue-green sea turtles to life and watch them scurry and hide from the midday autumn sun. Am I that sun? Are my hands too blistered and calloused to feel the warmth? I say no, and welcome warmth unto thine eyes. The eyes of mercy shone unto me shall do me justice this day. I shall bathe with the sea turtles in waters deep and glassy surface and create not a ripple. Oh Mercury, guide your fellow planets into alignment. I wish to dream a color other than black!

Where are all the Lifeboats?
Sullen streets and milky-white ways, I skulk and dirge in your melancholy waters. The waters overflow onto thirsty hillsides and drip rivers down high cheekbone facades. Where are all the lifeboats? Sadness shall not inherit my mists but insists as sadness still persists. Sadness wreaks its vengeance upon wide-eyed children of the corn and rears the ugly head of alien apathy to spite the penitent and blow smoke-rings in the faces of fallen foes. High tides sea slopes drown out my cries in muffled gurgles with giggles trapped still in my throat. Roll over. Play dead. And rest your weary head. Crusted and bankrupt, immoral and corrupt, dogpaddle for ancient shores of yesteryear and climb the skeleton-bone ladder of your pawns and checkmates. An ocean of time separates the dreams from the dreamers and sailors. Seagulls whine about in their whimsical ways but haven't the strength left in their jaws and wings to fly me to tomorrow. I thought I saw you row the last lifeboat into the eye of the storm, grinning. The sky lit up from lightning and teeth. And all the strongest fish swam upstream against the current and left their babies to die on jagged rocks and vacant eyes. I filled my lungs with empty promises till I could breathe no more. I just couldn't reach the lifeboat.

Lesson at Summer's End
Carelessly absent from societal gaze, eyes that turn inward shall not seek reward in two-dimensional fortunes. Teach me to smirk and jerk my head back in laughter as do you, who shrug off the naysayers in seersuckers and spoil their false truths with a courtly gesture and bow. Their catcalls and pigeon songs shall not dampen your delight. Teach me to kick up my heels and ruffle their feathers, to dust off the frowns of those who would look down their noses. The winds of change grow nearer and dearer to all who staple heavy shoes to shag-carpet floors. Oh, winds that gust with mighty must haven't the heart to tell you what the rest already know. I blew a kiss once, only to wake up the next morning with a note on my door saying I dropped it. Teach me to blow kisses on the mountain and wishes to a fountain. With faith and grace, you don the cap and gown of a heralded ascetic and grin amidst the inevitable bombardment of mud from wasteland wooden catapults. A passion fish you are. My willows weep gingerly the coming change of season. But even as a chill rides its mystic white steed into town at sundown, you bathe in naked glow and dig your fingernails into the last remnants of summer. And those winds that whispered sweet nothings across your trinity tattoo shall halt and turn away. Autumn may know its place in the coming years but shall not venture out this day for fear that to separate your hand from mine might spark the last remaining ember and engulf the fabric countryside in forever flame. Teach me how to stand and offer the other cheek when frostbit. Teach me to caress the sunshine without burning my wrists. Teach me to love and be loved. To fall and be caught. To care and to not.

Maybe Tomorrow
10 o'clock on a Sunday night. Shiny shoes and shirt tucked in just right. He slaps his paycheck on the table, the business card of the workingman still willing and able. Midnight rolls by and yeah, he's had a few. He's making friends and wishes but his pain still shows through. Raised glasses and raised eyebrows, talls and highballs. They all know him by the picture still hanging on the wall. "Last call!" says Jimmy as he empties the rack. "I had a bad day, could you cut me some slack?" But Jimmy's heard this sob story a million times before and shakes his head and points a finger towards the door. 4am, and he's alone on the street with the smell of defeat. Can't find his car, can barely walk, no one around with whom to talk. Does anyone really understand the forgotten dreams of a forgotten man? He lays his head down, this here porch sure feels nice. Ain't quite home, but it'll suffice. His bed is nowhere in sight. "Wonder if anyone has ever really drowned from sorrow? I miss my wife, I miss my life. Well, maybe tomorrow..."

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