Nobody knows the demons of another
or the reasons one acts or reacts
in a way that seems so "out of character."

Blame it on an alcoholic mother
or the way a war, the soul, refracts
that turns an artist into such an actor.

We search for "LOVE," so desperately;
not real love but that "other" thing
some use to define "LOVE."

We fail often and so absolutely
because the sincere songs we sing
seem to fit like O.J.'s glove.

Unless relief is found somewhere, somehow
the inevatable crash is preordained.
No human being can be immune

no matter how strong the false facade. And now
the time is near. Lightening's struck and it has rained.
Hail batters the glass house and too soon

the sound of the shattering will be heard
as the tornado consumes all that was at peace
only moments ago. The world as we know it

must bend to nature's will or no act or word
will manage to make the devistation cease.
A calm surface sometimes hides the turmoil below it.