Sweep

In a thousand years from now,
they won’t remember us,
us:
who strive to spy
behind the curtain;
who look at everything
and will its purpose
to serve us.

In a thousand years from now,
no trace will remain of us,
us:
who strive to rule
over existence;
who look at everything
and will its purpose
to belong to us.

In a thousand years from now,
I shall be forgotten,
I:
who strove to spy
behind the curtain;
who looked at everything
and willed its purpose
to serve you.

Shelterless

Shattered leaves from sheltered trees
They dry the bloodstains on the ground
To conquer all but seven seas
And kill what makes us safe and sound

I know, I know there is no time
Thus all falls to the river’s flood
For in our first breath lies our crime
Cleansed and washed away like mud

Shattered dreams from sheltered sleep
A memory stinging day and night
To fall apart where widows weep
And vulnerable to the light

I know, I know there is no space
Thus rain will drown our stifled cries
For this will always be the place
Where there’ll be no sun to rise

Hope

Hope is such a fickle thing,
It cannot be denied.
Despair allows no bickering,
It cannot be defied.

Over seas of endless storms,
I row my boat alone.
The pain will come in endless forms
To turn dreams into stone.

Hope is such a fickle thing,
It’s driven me insane.
I’ve long run out of songs to sing,
There’s no more blood to drain.

Summertime

Another summer is about to pass me by,
Just love still lingers where the oceans die;
And every word now has to be assumed a lie –
Let go of hope, for you have long bled dry.

Tomorrow

If I were dead tomorrow,
Your heart would skip no beat;
You’d not be full of sorrow,
But full of joy and heat.

If I were dead tomorrow,
You’d sit out in the sun;
No tears would ever follow,
If I were so undone.

I loved you like no other,
My heart now cold and hollow;
For you would never bother
If I were dead tomorrow.

Cupboard Poetry

The other day, I visited a friend of mine who has bits of words on his cupboards. Most of the words and syllables provided suggested sexual topics, so I tried to come up with something more lyrical. This was the result:  

What Do You Know

Wherever I go,
The shadows will follow.
And what do you know,
In filth you will wallow.

At heart and in mind,
You haunt my tomorrows,
You’re one of a kind:
The source of my sorrows.

I dream of the sea
To drown my frustration:
Its only decree
Is breed desperation.

Wherever I go,
The shadows will cry fear.
Yet what do you know
Who left me to die here.