A Real Dream

 A Real Dream

My dreams:
A mere extension
Of my days’
Drudgery and commotion

No rest
From the wickedness
This vortex
Of frantic meaninglessness

The means
Justify the means
On and on
With no ends to rest upon

Not to dream
In a dark, deep rest
Would be
A wish come true, a real dream

Demythifying

 Demythifying

The boulder, perched on its slope

No one around, no one there

No body to push it up

Not a soul to keep it there

There's nothing to give us

Inspiration or hope

Heavens aren't all that's empty

Our stories have gaping holes

Torn open by the critics

As they purify our souls

Giving next to nothing

While they destroy plenty

Song of an Old Man

 Song of an Old Man

I am not jealous of youth.

Having been there, I miss it.

But having been through it,

I wouldn't trade age for youth.

This being old is easy.

Youth was far too chaotic.

Its passion, hope: despotic.

Now, giving up is easy.

Age has nothing, wants nothing.

But this age: has... wants it all. 

Flying before it can crawl. 

Easily, I do nothing. 

I am not jealous of youth.

Being old is easier.

The world these days is manic.

Being old makes it easier.