R. C. Welford

I wonder how they justify,

Their feeble, pious lies,
...

I walk among these plains of planes,
As night fades, wanders and wanes,
...

In the house where I grew, I listened,
I loved. no wrong could come about me,
...

What is a man to do if his dreams are at war?
If that which he loves, will kill that which he adores?
...

Purple bottle or maroon red,
Sits underneath the showerhead,
...

My line of sight, broken, blocked,
Behind clouds pitied by casted skies,
...

My sleep evades me now, it claws at the corners,
Of my vision; seeps slowly into the mind's eye.
I fear, you see, that my sleep is not mine,
To keep; that in the darkness, it has gone awry.
...

Ice cream van, parked, at the end of the street,
A giant whippy stood on top. two duck feet,
...

These mountains of mine, made into molehills,
Before the breadth of our lives.
...

This is torture, when you make me talk first,

Plain and simple. not with pliers, knives,
...

Speech is not for the right, nor the free.

It hold nothing but a fine and a fee.
...

sometimes

there's little time
...

A single crumpled leaf,
Folds itself along the stones,
That are paved beneath my feet.
As this concrete wasteland,
...

Oh, how I wish that I would die,

With no ones that I love nearby,
...

A strange silence fills the streets at night,

Of muffled stalls and lack of light.
...