Poetry
Over Active Imagination
He sits upon a pedestal watching the city day and night.
A powerful foe, he prides on crime and decay,
Of the other buildings within this city, not protected by his sight.
He sits upon his ledge agape, yet nothing can he say.
He sees every color, yet his is a dull gray.
His neck is stiff and ridged; his teeth are full of moss.
He hears every footstep, and everything we say,
But his place is on the edge before the great cross.
He knows of every thought within our mind,
And he warps our imagination.
He makes us wonder if he's kind,
Or if he suffers from aggravation.
His appearance in our world can be quite deceiving.
His mood can be joy, anger or pain.
Our thoughts are taken from morn to evening,
To people whom he has slain.
His grotesque form frightens us,
As his wings seem to flutter.
Our blood runs cold and we must,
Fold our arms, shiver, and shutter.
His glaring eyes stare on through to our hearts,
As he seems to lick his lips.
We step back in fearful start,
Trying to free ourselves from his grip.
And just before he leaps from assailing pose,
The blast of a car horn rips through the night.
We look at the driver, his face red like a rose,
Our hearts are racing perverted by the fright.
And we look to him again on the edge, his body stiff and still,
Not thinking, not sleeping, or breathing any air.
We blink our eyes in wonder, our hearts still pounding from the thrill,
And we know he was, he is, and he always will be there.
A Life
"Oh Lord, Life is great, Life is grand,"
Exclaims the tiny man.
He walks and smiles and runs and laughs,
A walking stick is in his hand.
He climbs a wall and runs some more,
His mind so carefree and at ease.
He's lived here on earth for a while,
And he has every right to smile.
For life has given him so much joy,
He prays for good health every day.
He respects all and every creature,
As they are not for him to toy.
Then a shadow forms around him,
And he smiles and looks up to see,
The most beautiful thing he has ever found,
Fall and crush his body to the ground.
The boy lifted his finger, and to his mom did say,
"Mommy, I squished a bug. Mommy, are you proud?"
His mother only smiled, and looked up at the sky,
After all a bug is a bug, and who cares anyway?
The Silver Behemoth
The silver behemoth soars in the sky.
The freezing air choking its lungs as it flies
Yet it keeps its eyes open and alert for trouble.
The air is a dangerous place for it to fly.
Its skin stops the stinging air from freezing its inside,
And it flies at great speeds, faster than believed,
But it knows that it is fragile, as many brethren realized before,
One mistake is all it can make, before it becomes no more.
Its body shudders, the wind is too great for it to bear.
It raises and lowers, rocks to and fro, it fights its panic back.
It regains control, but doesn't sigh for relief, its worries aren't over.
It will remain cautious until it lands, even though it's almost there.
It sees its long perch in the distance, and it begins to descend.
Its eyes are more cautious now than ever.
Just one inch off could spell disaster for it, and to all it would be known
As a fool who didn't watch itself, so into the inferno it was thrown.
It lowers more, drops its speed, readies its feet for the ground and then,
It lands perfectly like it's done before and slows to a stop.
It makes its way to its new home and stops there for a while.
The silver behemoth will think no more until it flies again.