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Evaporated upon a mist levitating shadows,
Wraith of what was once a man with heart.
Specter translucence floating on lost voids,
Shallow depth sunken out hollowed irises,
Diaphragm piercing draining life’s fluids.
Dry, oh so parched deserted dehydration,
Waterfalls raining in, becoming barren inside,
Erosion of dust choking lungs clogging time,
Suspended animation drowning on finite
Particles of space of ever decreasing velocity.
Mind slipping away as lost pages of a story
To have ceased awaiting the grave stone,
With birth and no death marks of finality,
Frozen away in a maze clinging to a thread,
Soul needing the closure of eternal peace.
Brittle bones decomposing petrified rock.
Breezing eerie chills gravitating skeletons,
Waiting for flowing verses of rejuvenation.
Casting spells upon the human tragedy
Of poetic justice reincarnating the poet.
Pages of time stored in a vault recomposing
Upon the whispers of imagery coming alive.
Seeded germination gaining roots to grow,
Sprouts springing forth a spirit revitalized.
No longer vanquished but entranced in words.
Revival from the banned terminated depression,
Ghost of what was a man dejected to silence.
For the fresh air of American poetry is volatile.
Burning in people’s minds to conform its freedom,
But winged Democracy has its dire independence.
And its consequences, that the creative Artmosphere
Shrinks upon narrow minded impregnated intimidation,
By becoming a lost wraith writer riding the obscurity.
But the glow resonates before your premature demise,
For the heart cannot give up its rhyme of lovemaking.
Shadows of tears, fears, wearing years of frustrations,
Coming out of the mummy of liberal wrappings
That sees the eyes of the streets upon its Hurricane truth
That green blood flows deep in Washington’s compassion,
Lobbying five star corporate creative accounting treatments.
But alas in America, free speech is a wraith of the past,
Or the starvation of the living patriots seeking out the truth,
Of the WMD’s that has invaded our Constitution’s diversity
That say a person of poverty is equal to a fraternity of secrecy
That art is painted on the faces of the wraiths of all humanity,
Bless the holy waters that merge us back into a nation
Where “We the people” can speak out loud, not in secrecy.
D.Lester 03/29/06 ©
De-Terminated poet, somewhere in America not on company time.
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|Reviewed by Lisa Hilbers
I fear the truth in this, but I know its real. Its come to the point where only those with right sized bank accounts are heard, and only those that follow the leaders are recognized. It's sad, and is getting even moreso daily.
Thank goodness for writers, otherwise, so many would never be enlightened at all.