begin » spoken word » black


What rough beast this way comes
to breathe in love and spew such hate.

To crush out life with callous heel
as though it were but cast out leavings

of forgotten dreams that held no sway
over man or woman and all they loved.

This bitter thorn does prick the heart.
A fatal wound; a poison pill

on tongues that sang of bright new days,
now to choke on life’s last blood.

Black clouds have now consumed the sun
and past has gone away.