The Man and his Black Steed

A man sees himself in a bathroom window

As pigeons shit on millions of cars

Across the world as we prepare for personalities

That run naked amongst out empty palettes

Painting ideas with barren conclusions.

This race of outs has become weary

Of itself, caught in conundrum cabinets

Locked with the love lost between cracks

Created by the ever exhausting tragedies

Of the quiet ones who lost their voices.

The lions have become tedious of the silent man

Who chats over coffee conversations about thimbles

And pin cushions that keep poking his sides.

But woman listens to the hyms of wisdom

Wishing for him to help her get up.

We have become old in out material bones.

The cartilage of support has been dissolved

Into the many hands that we think we need.

Only to become a person of a perfect species.

A parody of the soil and all its good intent.

But we few shepards bare witness to time

And the man and his black steed as

He chases the fate of the fair-the-well boys.

And they cry for the faults they haven't committed.

And for the silence of the laughter

In the lair of social limbo.

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