Like well-kept secrets

A wrecking ball plunging forward
independent of control,
unmistakable and unforgiving.
Destroying creating,
thumping down grounds of thick sludge and concrete,
making way for itself but soon others can see
the amalgamation of things, the particles now the prairie, the landscape forever changing, the eye but a moment, the then never recurring, the multitude of movement, the vicinities of thought, the remoteness of complexion, the stupidity in comparison, the drive, the need, the must of unique, the race to know nothing and feel everything at once, the occasional pause
the despair to erase memory, the effort to preserve it, the wonderings that seep off the lid of Pandora, the momentous physicality, the false connection, the primitive musk alive as the heat which sustains it, the ephemeral sense of freedom, the fading of fear, the consequence of time tumble and rumble under its spherical weight, lost in momentum this unstoppable force.

It's Five in the Morning: Do You Know Where You Are?

I am what nature made me. I am the centre of the universe.
I am nothing and all things speaking really, really fast.

      Sometimes I embrace the spirit Walden left behind.
To up and go from the carbonate lulling of the tide;
to take up arms alongside - the humming of the oak,
the scent of thoughts.

Other times I become
Patriot of cities, lover of hedonism;
a romance short lived
as to question the truth behind romance and tricks.

Cut like a cantaloupe,
in half - I exist
as you who are bold and soft.

You live your days on electropop.
Make it good, make it loud -
whatever's on, whatever's hot.
Like creatures of myth riding into war,
for tomorrow when you are closest to death
lapsed memories come to fade in your head.
Bangitty bang the battles you have fought
like wrapped sheets shrivel back down the melting pot.

It's five in the morning: do you know where you are?

You leave the darkness from whence you came,
some kid comes along and asks you for change.
Ragged clothes, no shoes on -
How about that vodka you just blew fifty on?

It comes back to you one hit first:
     what would your father think?
     Is this why your mother gave birth?
Had you been clear you'd think for love,
equality; maybe an end to poverty.
But tonight nose runny and eyes like a dome,
you just wish the child had never left home.

The dark at its worst 
he should be sleeping for school.
But who are you to know which 
way leaves bend when they meet with summer hue.
Mouth with him as he goes: "It's five in the morning,
you look like a fool".

Cold sweat like caverns in spring - 
you could tell him your truth
to up and go from where you came, all he does not know.
"I can't speak to the concrete"
your voice a godless whisper, should not have played in the snow.

You reason with youth -
you are what you are and that makes it okay
to live through this night and sleep through the day.
For tomorrow when you are closest to death,
      you'll think of leaves lapping gently on trees by the riverbed.