WHAT IS IT LIKE . . .

it is watching the moon

in phase, out of phaze

through its phases

far away beyond the clouds

among the stars

THE SOUND

a stirring of tiny feet

barely noticeable, focusable

with the trained and gifted eye

hearts beating slowly

slowly to barely

a whisper

Blood flowing through

vessels through vessels

to crescent gates

air to tunnels then

back then back

WHAT'S IT LIKE

unwelcomed life

horrors filling visions

past boundaries of will

skills being wasted

the fermented tasted till

all is lost at a cost of a

ten-dollar pill

the still at odds with

constant, random

evil motion --- the evil

notion hatched like a

rotting rash spread across

the land

SOUNDS LIKE . . .

a scratching

a paper thrill

nails not long enough to

reach a spot just out of

reach, just out of reach

like the dreams of the

crescent moon, beyond

the clouds, among the stars

pulling for humanity from

the dark, cold vacuum of

space.

WHAT'S IT LIKE . . .

dreams of love

a nightmare interruption

of scalding, burning hate

on a constant basis, faces

molded into place like clay

the creative form born to

one focus --- bogus hocus pocus

slight-of-hand sin disguised

as a pleasant wind.

THAT SOUNDS LIKE . . .

the death of love

dirges of destruction

laments of the lost, the lost

the screams of unwantedness

the bloody benign birth of

malignancy into the minds of

the innocent . . .

life no life could ever want

a constant need no guardian can fill

except its own

to disown, like a breath of smoke

from blackened lungs

the result of man's need and

constant greed . . .

a sight unfit for the human gaze

out of phase, like

the crescent moon

beyond the clouds

beyond the stars

in dark, cold

empty space.

(c) 2008, simpoet