Those who fight
Those who die
Those who ask to stay alive
City fall
Shadow tall
Nothing in the distance
And they pray
In the night
When Death is in their sights
But still they fall
Those who fight
Those who pray for morning light
I act my character as if I was them
But sometimes I stay as me
And the actor turns into my hand
With a puppet on my knee.
I am a ventriloquist.
Terry Fator has helped a lot.
He has shown me ways to express myself
And tell jokes that I cannot
We are all unique and special
Full of hope and dreams
We take what we are good at
and use what makes us gleam.
I use my talents and my gifts
To become who I am now.
And now I ask you,
What makes you YOU?
What will make you shine?
His wings are like wide fans,
his eye is as blue as the sky he flies in.
His beak is as gold as a king’s crown,
his talons are as sharp as a winter wind.
He holds his noble head high, as if he were
looking down on the Earth in scorn.
In the air he is brave and swift, but on land he is scared and slow.
He is the symbol of greatness.
Beware of the claws of materialism.
For once it clutches, it doesn’t let you go.
It ruins your life, it doesn’t let you grow.
Find yourself luckier than the beggars, do you?
But they are much luckier and their hearts are true.
The rich put locks on doors, for they are paranoid;
But beggars sleep on the road and dwell in the void.
Having no materialistic possessions, they live carefree lives;
While the rich count their jewels in fours and fives.
The rich always want the best of everything
But the beggars value what they have and make the best of nothing.
Imagine the feeling of having no valuables at all
No iPhones, expensive shoes or only-for-show dolls.
The non-materialistic people won’t fear death
For the poison of materialism wouldn’t have its claws on them yet.
Let go of this mania and live a simple existence
For its better if materialism and you have the maximum distance.
The moon scowls at the broken land
The stars curse at the widowed lake
The night here forever floats
And day runs to a shorter note
The moonlight deceives the needy land
The sky mocks the helpless lake
The passion here floats away,
And loves, as well, betrays
The eyes of stone
And smile that’s spurious
I still walk this helpless road of sorrow
Though I know there is nothing but grief in tomorrow.
Though joy it brings to the hearts at fire
Leaves them nothing but with thirst
But literates them with bitter truth
That loves gives nothing but the fruit of Ruth
by Ben
Curious that they should be born from forest fires;
discreetly new, anonymous and asexual
in fields of clean grey embers.
Can they remember?
Pocketed like decayed brain cortexes
or miraculous honeycomb – their breath
is as thick and rich as honey, or death.
I wonder if, after the world is burnt,
and the forest’s gone,
the spring,
the bees,
the children,
all gone…
I wonder if morels will grow.