Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Desert Son

When stringing out the words
I weave about my verses,
A syllable goes wrong:
A word without its place.

My anger in the passing
Of yet another stanza
Leaves nothing more to say
Than stagnant little thoughts:

My love is worn and tired
To mimic my War Horse,
A cold and bitter stare
Too weary to bring fear,

A tired, old affliction
That struggles in the dust
While burdened with my Love
Unsought, unwanted, worthless.

I write too much these days.
I write until I'm dry,
A desert full of sand
And every grain: a poem.

So "Desert Son" they call me,
A rider through the dunes.
My horse is burdened down
With English that I use.

Verbose and lacking feeling
I just stick words together
Hoping for a difference
But knowing all the same

That heavy verbal hoof prints
Just trace my lonely path
Swallowed by the desert.
I'm sure that none will follow.

Uncertain of direction,
I know what stays the same:
I flee from presents past
To force my future shame.

2 comments:

Ron Alford said...

Hey Thomas. I love the rhythm! At least to my ears, it flows well (and fast).

Thomas Jackson said...

Thanks, dude! Yeah, the rythmn is by design. Iambic trimeter is my cadence of choice.