The Pen

Can I stop the wind from blowing,
Catastrophe I see,
And end the rising tide of ocean,
Drowning suredly;

I stand before the masters,
Slaves and in between,
And slowly raise my head with open mouth,
Hitherto unseen;

Times mold upon form sets hue upon see,
Your shell is hardened and glazed,
I stand before you,
I bleed a dark case,
Others have surely bled too;

The path is filled with fallen leaves,
Wither in silent song,
The heals of sealed perspective,
Deaf to crunches set undone;

Frantic for the potion,
To divine the open mind,
Pour upon impassable,
Set motion of a kind;

Voices carried thru the air,
In every shade of yearn,
Fall failed despite the carriage,
Nurture stacked against the turn;

We build our own reflection,
Tiny mirrors at a time,
The silver painted backing,
Society's or mine?

The image we becometh,
Roughed out in early bloom,
Is the remnant of our essence, that
Fights to live,
In battles strung,
'Gainst outer world,
'Long pathways bits left strewn;

There are traps to sensibility,
That do not snap nor sting,
They anchor in the background,
Twist discordance in a ring;

Snares befall our wary eyes,
Cataract and blur sincerity for guise,
No deed nor absolution,
No pity to a bend,
No song for the impassioned,
Brings false judgement to an end;

Tears another plead,
To soften, crack or scratch,
The emptying of sorrow,
In pooled epitaphs;

Still a shined resilience,
Still nothing stays to seep,
Not straying from the pathway,
Varied hues will not keep;

Self the redefiner,
Self the Pompadour,
Self masks us righteous,
Truth the only cure;

The feeling of your surety,
The surge in feeling right,
Feeling the addiction,
Confuses right for sight;

So bleeding now before you,
In form for now again,
Truth stains to raise attention,
Penetration with a pen;