finding peace

a vagabond, a drifter, a pauper
i see the sun burning in the sky
and the moon glowing in the far
off horizon shining with dreams
bright and star bound with seams

yet when i paint them pictures
they bark about rhyme and meter
and tell me about punctuation and
yet fail to employ it themselves
i see the temporal employment

i dig on to be the mirror of god
for i see that it is my purpose
this slow world with small time
it is turning in barrels of paint
pictures fast before time runs out

painting of god's conforming image 
where a thousand worlds are not 
enough to paint it a billion times
multiplied over and again in order 
to embolden accuracies building 

it's correct enough to see it all
amongst the millions of millions
feeling each grain of sand passing
the surface of my lonesome skin
to spit the burning feeling out

a final poem meaning to walk away
grand pleasure granted to so few
writing again and to write it off
lost to get fucked out of my face
woman is the earth to her man here

a vagabond a drifter and a pauper
verily loose and hanging out there
rotten place where i bide my time
even chance in this space coalesced
gives the middle finger to peace

tell now as i have told you before
your supreme clues but as i wish
you the best as i turn my back 
to your face as you may be useless
lest you kindle some form of fire

CuldeSac

What are words without understanding and what is understanding without sense?

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