Little Stars

I run on like sentences into night skies
the stars twinkling like bright white lies
I dot each little sparkle with my index finger
and these small spots disappear longer than they linger

Rejoice in crisp mornings widely awoken
the few breaths of the day spent laughing and joking
avoiding these stars, shy and soft spoken
but they reappear by night without a hint of provoking

What do they hold but old light far away?
they follow me by night only to let go by the day
the clouds will part and the skies will open once again
and the little stars will follow the hopes and dreams of men


The Sparrow

A sparrow sat planted on my window
I did not see her, I did not look in her direction
I carried on through my day, as I could

She watched, observed my moves
I knew nothing, for her shadow did not prove large
her quiet manners shrouded her in a corner
my inattentive nature closed my eyes to her presence

Only did I notice her
when she left, her fluttering wings carrying her off into the sky
jolting my senses
and with her went a piece of my thoughts
and the peace in my mind


Spent under the trails of life’s frail beckoning
wave the wind into my sails and have me float until all fails
When we sink to the bottom, forgotten on our sea bed
laying in sand like sculptures on final threads
entrenched safely within our heads
we will know that the words shared were our last to be spoken but first to be truly said


Lifelong learning burning in a matter of minutes
knowledge infinite reduced to piles of ash trashed without value with which to spin it
books thrown in the air, the shams of crooks in despair
the educated masses daring to stare in the face of a life without repair

The lines have been squashed; the bridges churned down to a ground so stern
when did we yearn to forget what has been learned?
No longer gracious in taking what has been earned

The subjects in states of objective threat
hours passing crashing through stages of extended neglect
a long way past rectifying this situation so sour
the soil in this bed of flowers dry as the hardened heads of power