posted March 30, 2016 03:11 PM            

I walk and talk to the ghosts
They pat me on the back
And said to place all my bets
On the Russian roulette
I said I’ll bet for the 88
Maybe then they’ll cut me some slack

And the river, giver of life
Giver of the name of the land
Dirty like the bloody oil
Dead as a graveyard
Has no spark, no soul
And I wonder, if there’s still some kind of life

Lost, lost in many thoughts
Of the things I never sought
For the precious things
For the many longings
And the many questions
On what’s right or what’s wrong

Yet they speak of the past
The old glorious past
Where you had no voice
No pleasure or choice
Where the prose was forbidden
And the wisdom was eaten

posted March 31, 2016 01:00 PM            

Haunting realizations, you penned this exquisitely.