Bolivar and San Martin: Guayaquil, Ecuador

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

The Crossroads of Midnight

And all this pain cannot subside,
Not here at the crossroads of midnight.
There’s no recourse now, having wallowed so long in darkness,
Yearning only to see the last remnants of light.

And the angel’s voice pierces the eardrum softly,
And flows delicately in and over the receptacles of sound,
Words enunciated by the voice of longing itself take up residence
Touching him only enough to make him feel something again.

What are these words, and what are these dreams?
It is the hollow trail of passion and unrequited love,
It is the unspoken words exploding in fits of violent rage,
It is the false heart coming to fruition, achieving awareness of its own impurity.

I remain, though sunlight does not.
There is but the shadow of the moonlight passing through clouds,
Quietly falling over dead and broken trees,
A desperate whisper of what I used to be, and of my life’s love,
Which flickers and fades slowly in the emptiness of night

Saturday, February 05, 2005

The Streets of the Undead

The sky is crying today.
Its children are dying
And no one seems to care.
A haze rolls in under the grey sky
I'm stuck in England on a rainy day,
Walking quietly
For the end of her empire has come.

The people who pass me have no faces,
I see only dark shrouds
Drenched in the sky's tears, and their own.
I stop to ask one of these phantom people why they cry,
She tells me it is becaue they are not alive,
But they cannot die.

I ponder these words
As the woman disappears into the mist.
I huddle in a corner
As the rain falls and the fog thickens.

The truth comes galloping to me on the wind,
And I sob in the cold, unforgiving rain,
When I realize I walk the streets of the undead,
And will remain here eternally, without the power to die.