Robert L. Bixler III Poems

Seven pounds of my soul cries for such salvation,
To give all of myself and turn disaster into redemption.
What would appear as apparent, calculated self destruction
Feints the obvious undertones of beautiful creation.
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Delight in the sight of the perfect fight
End the trend only to find a friend.
Handle any scandal with a burning candle
Quite the night that she showed you the light.
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There reside’th, in thineself, a caustic evil.
One such the world hath tasted
As I tore’th at existence’s very navel;
Not would’th survived un-wasted.
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Lyrical verse of a cold harmony,
Follow the calling to thy very knee.
When thee are called from the grave,
It will be’th thyself who invokes the knave.
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Desires of isolation reside,
Not in the genetics of man
But are bred conditionals to abide
With a most disdainful omen.
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Lonely steel blade, on skin, slides
As the forgotten child weakly hides.
Cold, soft brush of damnation
Brought by soul-capturing lamentation.
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Four cursedly short years,
Some could pray for more.
Years that saw the conquering of fears,
And the acquiescence of majestic lore.
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It is just a shallow time when my eyes stare straight
With nothing near me to hold dear.
Time is only a measure of death.
No record kept, no history written... My life is nothing.
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In dark, solitary remembrance a friendship fades
As time dissolves the few remaining strands.
How hindsight bias, and emotional reminisce, jades
The memory that such a connection brands.
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Childhood naivete and foolish mistakes
Creative lies and selfish ideals
Drunken parties and false romances
Immoral activities and uneducated remarks
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