an ode to the wordsmith

hammered on a blank paper anvil,
he bent those impossible links to a chain…
wrought from the fires of his heart,
were letters ode to glory, and to pain…

held tight like the slipping sands,
in the strong shell of a sixty minute glass…
he captured life in black and white,
in words that would neither fade, nor pass…

he believed not in himself as one,
but just another medium for the passing by…
for what his worth did mean now,
would only be about what he left behind…

when crooked questions posed,
his answers were always straight in line…
that the ones who needed to know,
would find it all in the passage of time…

and here his words, i now quote,
from a letter that he had long ago wrote…

"to the wordsmith is this ode,
for these words, are not mine,
but his, that i have quote."

that kind of me

the kind of man that i once was,
i'm no longer used to being…
for this bridge that i must cross,
don't let pass, that kind of me…

let the bygones be forgotten,
another day the sun will see…
i shed my skin for this now,
true to the very bone try to be…

i've burned my wings with fire,
fallen prey to my self you see…
but if that keep me from the sky,
you don't, what i do believe...

when the light does fade away,
i could find my shelter in the dark…
at the break of mornings dawn,
fight the sun with my own spark…

cause they said to me once,
that life will not happen twice...
so here's to day, and to night,
for who i am, virtue or vice…

the sixty second run

it takes just a degree to break,
that circle we had never wished to run...
but it is all that we've lost now,
and it is all that we could've ever won...

a man wise to me, hath once said,
the most trying sixty seconds of life,
are best spent when you still run...
but who knows it for the truth,
it could well be a sadist's pun...

now the one life as I've known it,
has been black and white in only,
the blurry pictures of us then...
we live in the grey space for now,
and we'll leave one morning's day,
but let the answer come to when...

reborn

"It came to me on an evening's dawn,
but now, it's taking form.
you'll get to see a piece of me growing,
being born..."

lost to a sunlit haze,
bleeding breath, ohh glory blaze...
like the brighter red,
were pit against a burning black,
king of the cards,
still just part of the stack...

fleeting glee, a screaming wind,
regardless, what might have been...
Ohh how she glows,
the scarred moon in that sky...
giving even the night in itself,
a reason, come alive...

to the floor, a house of cards,
a plea for peace to a raging war...
like on a worn piece of hope,
were a letter written to the god,
torn to shreds, yet hanging on,
the will of a man burnt, but reborn...

the "in between"

you paint me in your shades,
of yellow and green,
but, in the grey,
between the black and white,
is where i've always been...

I'm not what you've known,
or what you think you've seen,
I'm just the dark shade of grey,
the in between...

the colours were your imagination,
never a part of my scene,
I'm just me, you see,
just what I've always been,
the dark shade of grey,
the in between...