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I’m only scared of all the things I know.
A philosophic notion calls to arms.
The violence in the eye defines the storm.
No dead man’s breath disguised as smoke can
stall
A prisoner freed to ghost between the
walls.
Because this fiction’s simpler to believe
I name it fact while counting on your aim
To pierce the cancer at the point of proof.
An arrow nocked’s no promise of success;
Perfection’s not a promise I can keep.
I’m only scared of all the things I love.
There’s no such thing as heartbreak, only
change.
The last thing I recall is death. I’ve
grown
Too old to satisfy such petty lusts;
Unnumbered years hang loose about my frame,
The counted day a cage for flightless hope.
I grind my axe upon the sainted rock
And swing to meet the end of time’s
approach.
This done, all’s left to do is watch them
dance
The sinner’s waltz in death’s
three-quartered time.
I’m only scared of all I’ve never said.
An incoherence torrents from my tongue,
The simple word’s beyond my meagre means.
These rhymeless phrases aggregate a tale,
Unborn though still it bears truth’s beastly
mark;
A poem loud with love and death, no doubt.
Such faithless nouns, those articles of
age,
To hieroglyph a phantom course upon
A countenance of consonant and vowel.
Its calculating eye sums then and now.
I’m only scared of all that’s yet to come.
All fear is fiction bent on bastards acts
To conjure wrong from right, while watching
faith,
Its patient eye awake to fallen man,
Designs in subtle plans to save a soul
In want of no redemption. I cannot
Afford respect to antics such as these.
The stony ground is seedless in this sun;
Its dust roars with the death of all our
dreams
And, standing tall as Time, I scythe stars.
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