Roy G. Biv

Reading the time line of the passing days takes a toll.
A toll that doesn't accept quarters.

Overspent and tired, I've begun to feel cold.
Cold like a war without martyrs.

Yelling and hollering makes my throat feel sore.
Sore and quieted as though my days are through.

Gelling my thoughts to stand tall seems all I can score.
Score and checkmate, alike a moment gone askew.

Belittling my own existence was never an option of my own.
Own being and alien born from a time long forgotten.

In between the moments, I've realized why the sword was put in stone.
Stones and sticks handled by those gone rotten.

Vitality conjoined with endless blood work, that's the family tree of Life.
P.S. Life and Roy G. Biv are good men, indeed, from the spectrum of time and light.


* * *


Vanquishing your fears is something that the closeting boogeyman will never forget.
Forget-be-not your childhood riddled with curiosity-prone attention.

It's never been what you want, but instead what you admit that you regret.
Like a lengthened menu of refreshments that don't look appealing at a standing concession.

Before any day is through, you'll settle your thoughts alike a fire yearning either sand or more wood.
Woods of pines and maples flourish the Appalachian trail like a distinguishing memory from hikers.

Give what you take and take as you give, otherwise you'll just be badgered until you do what you should.
Should it be a flood of escalating repetition, alike a stream of heaving bikers.

Yellowstone has been branded a place of disaster in the future, being a super volcano.
Volcanoes and hurricanes pierce the local news on the Tele and tell us what true fear is.

Or is it the politics that speak of disaster, a disaster planned and forsaken similar to a tornado?
A tornado of vortexing diversion, smokes and mirrors that'll never answer, but instead dismiss.

Realize the day is gone, or just realize the day has yet to rise, I say.
Vib G. Yor once told me, "It's all just a masquerade for us all to either decipher or play."