Gord

2021-11-26 05:13 am

A horn right where the heart is,
A horn is where we started,
Beasts of a Godhead, snort,
What else would they know?

Seven heads, Seven hills, a woman sits,
Fearing what we couldn't fix is still amiss,
On top of the hill, one digests the hits,
The house my father built is sticks.

This calls for a mind with wisdom,
Or A horn right where the heart is.
For economics, For a little longer,
For when they finally got it,
The realization, it was violent.

Then floods, then nothing.

No foundation to stand on,
I must found myself, found my call,
But the houses my father built are gone.

Gord

2021-11-18 05:16 am

Beauty, all its mystery,
Maybe this is all a dream,
Belief instinctively,
Anger, or misery,
Or is it grief within me?

Imagine living, symptom-free,
Imagine, breathing with relief,
Instead coughing and wheezing,
Sleeping with vivid dreams,
While sleeping in the street.

A body smeared with honey,
Head to feet, conceit,
Declared supreme,
Yet not even complete.