by Patrick John Rebullida
Warning: These are melancholy...
Wondering
Dec 29, 2007
My feet feel the damp grass
Beside an unlit metal tree
In an alcove of wood and glass
Where a boy in a man lives free
Above the quiet, songs are sung
Tales of woe and love in frivolity wrung
Time is spent wandering
Below the high moon
Wondering
What will be revealed soon?
The Way I See
Jan 12, 2008
The way I see is blurred in an ocean of debris
A mass of sharps and flats in an unknown key
The family of five turned seven then six
Bids farewell to him who crossed the River Styx
Hours and days rid themselves of meaning
Turn into monotones of white, black and nothing
The sum product of toil on hard mantles
Fail to soften and mold broken angles
Glorious machinations leave me bewildered
Loss can't be fathomed, is never considered
Each day is numbered, all the hours
What's mine and yours was never ours
The way of the earth must be accepted
for both the consecrated and unconsecrated
An existence I question, follow and reckon
When all I wanted and need is redemption
