Bold, No Periods
A poem of incessant change


The thoughts here lain scorch the sun of tomorrows day when we say in vain what will be brought before, in our grasp, but its an empty claim. The bread and wine of the hero of time are taken in crime to a document signed by a hand that’s no larger in size than the clean of mine, and visibility shows it’s a shaded contradiction, an illusive thing with an oxymoron lip ring

So we sting

Everyone out of cord, even if it’s not their thing, who bites when their up to sing

And give good graces laced with a thousand smiley faces to those with pools and houses a hundred places

Time to pick up the fallen and thrash what ideas aren’t for calling, nor regard their weight with fruitless hauling

The hero is everyone who heeds the clue of a shadowed light when we know it’s an understatement in saying its plenty bright

The hero will weather the weather, whatever the weather

And thoughts here lain scorch the sun of tomorrows day

Surge the fill of your claim, puppet others unto actions the same

Give the hero a name
And squint - wear it under the brigaded clouds of amber
of fame