On Pike's

Salty air, salty breeze,
musician come, sway me please,
flying birds, flying fish,
watering mouth, exotic dish.

Farmer's fruit, freshly wet,
one charming face, happily met,
artiste's child, to parent's help,
lost in colors, is myself.

Obscure wares, colorful all,
changing though, as the fall -
musicians mind, travelers heart,
of a kaleidoscope, is a part.

Complacency and Complexity. ^_-.

A mighty roar out of the ferocious lion's den,
Bound Ulysses' scream of pain layered Siren voice,
mighty sonorous gong of Commandments ten,
and back to poor Ulysses against his choice.

Man, to be back to writing on paper again,
so much heavy stuff I seem to spew,
emotion this, balance that,
'mportant 'tis - but lets start anew.

I talk now about a simple man.
With a simple smile and a simple plan,
who went to work, lunch in tow,
with a hum dada dum did this man go.

He worked all day,
and felt his veins shudder at the unstable challenges that plagued him,
and fought to his muscles breaking beat against the world's din,
and on and on and blahdidramatiyatipoo...

No, no... Keep it simple...

He went to work with a simple smile,
and his simple plan took him 3 miles,
after work to the grocery shop,
for his wife's shopping list and a soda pop.

Phew.

The Iceman

Iceman

He stood, sinewed in silver,
not a speck of color in his world.
Not a love, not a hate, just a view,
crystal clear, nothing near, nothing far.

He stretched out his hand,
and one might think that the air grew cold,
but it changed naught, for the same was he,
unchanged throughout, he was but taking a step.

Then a rose blocked his path,
and he grabbed it, and gasped.
He could not let go, for two milky palms pressed his close.
Roses have thorns you know, red streams from iced veins arose.

And as the color speckled into his eyes,
the Iceman had his demise.

This Sunlit Haze

For them happy-go-lucky buggers.

Oxygen deprivation? Nah.

This is true fun.
My eyes tire to open, screaming out tears on the road.
But they do open, and smile at the world.
My wet lashes cover my sight, partially though.
Its like seeing the sights through a diffracting prison cell,
colors so real that all must be well.

My step's light, and I did have a headaches five minutes ago,
but its going now. Gone with the smile thats stretching out on my face.
So what if its going to snow tomorrow, the sun is out now.

I see the crosser sign turn to the white walking sign.
Each figure in front of me seems a story as it crosses the road,
linked to another, so much motion in my sight.

I don't seem to walk in distance, but in time, or so Einstein said.

My head does clear once I cross the road,
and I risk another glance at the setting sun.
Its there, poignant as ever,
leaving me to see,
where my new mini era has begun.

The Joker

Chaos is true. Pure chance as well. And I'm gonna prove it.

I live in intensity. A kind which you can't dream of. Yet to you I seem so distant and grounded.
At my weakest I may acknowledge a rival, but then thats my secret.

Escalation is me, in pain of a kind that hurts to feel.
With recursed memories leading into one another, I live in my present, which spans your lives' extent.
I can see your core, only because I've lost mine,
and take and break your quest to find yours.

And in the midst of this all, the one human part of me is what you would call cruel,
for it amuses me, and pushes me to cure that I see you as: my boredom.

How I sit on air, strolling through your worlds, in an attempt to amuse myself,
searching for that rock that resists me, a face that I wouldn't mind seeing in my mirror; and hence break it.

I wasn't always like this, I like to recall, but that is non existent now.

So smile with me, for I do exist. Either in your wildest fantasies or darkest dreams, hoping for my answer who actually makes me work.

Escalation is me, in chaos of a kind that builds and builds again.
How I test, without rest, spread out in this ordered mess, the unstoppable that is me.

This show is such a parody. I'm just different, thats all.

Prophet's

For heroes will rise, and villians will fall,
and villians will rise, or nothing at all.

The world revolves, and us with it,
the betters, with a compass tugging at their hearts,
they flow through their dreams, their wants and aims,
not waiting for their world to start.

Some stare, lost, into the skies,
the stars' existence from up above,
beamed into their starry eyes,
holding their dreams, their wants and aims.

Some are sharp as the edge of knives,
cutting through what they despise,
silver hazes in others' eyes,
cutting away their nightmares and hates.

Such a pulse it is, living on,
such drives there are, burning on,
makes me feel so wonderfully incomplete,
with my changing aims that I will never meet.

I see the symmetry of twos all about.
And I celebrate this tug of mighty souls as they clash about.

For heroes will rise, and villians will fall,
and villians will rise, or nothing at all.

The Untitled Song

For heroes will rise, and villians will fall,
and villians will rise, or nothing at all.

The world revolves, and us with it,
the betters, with a compass tugging at their hearts,
they flow through their dreams, their wants and aims,
not waiting for their world to start.

Some stare, lost, into the skies,
the stars' existence from up above,
beamed into their starry eyes,
holding their dreams, their wants and aims.

Some are sharp as the edge of knives,
cutting through what they despise,
silver hazes in others' eyes,
cutting away their nightmares and hates.

Such a pulse it is, living on,
such drives there are, burning on,
makes me feel so wonderfully incomplete,
with my changing aims that I will never meet.

I see the symmetry of twos all about.
And I celebrate this tug of mighty souls as they clash about.

For heroes will rise, and villians will fall,
and villians will rise, or nothing at all.