<center>TAPESTERY OF PAIN
If I transpose my reality into something tangible,
show you the collective fabrics that weave the tapestry of what is my life,
the when, where, how, and why,
what you would see is a tattered cloth,
very aged, and very worn by misuse,
unclean and stained by the past,
with no more then patch work repairs meant only to sustain its integrity,
though rough and hardened by years of abrasive motions,
and here and there the occasional weft hangs limp and lucid,
and its once soft virgin wool is now “corpse like” in texture,
then discarded for the shear repugnant odors that emanate from the now sallow rags,
used beyond the point of having any remaining value,
if you can comprehend the uselessness I feel,
the exasperated folly that is my life,
then your eyes have opened to a reflection in a mirror that casts an image of me,
when I am not there,
for I am but a reflection of all of you,
in a mirror you cannot see.
JESTER OF BROKEN HEARTS
Translucent images of a self-perceived worth,
Morals corrupt with ebon thoughts,
A dance mockery to my own humanity,
What makes me the torrent vestige imposed upon today’s populace,
A self imposed victim of mans atrocities,
A killer of self,
Molester of my own innocence,
Rapist of my own soul,
I throw myself into a court as jester,
When all else proclaim themselves kings,
I am the creator of my own sorrow,
The smithy who pounds out my own suffering upon the anvil of life,
Burnt and bitter with the thoughts of what could have been,
And that which was not,
For “I am” a parody to the word called love,
Not even crowned as the king of fools,
For I am the jester of broken hearts.
By Mr. E. Jones
TO BELIEVE, OR NOT TO BELIEVE
A dialect forms from an undesired breath
Disjointed in my intent
Extraneous to the meaning others perceive
My juxtaposition holds much ambiguity
When I consider the allegory of good versus evil
Morally abstracted in my own perceptions
Am I the minority facing the torrent?
Or are the eyes of knowledge slowly becoming the majority
What are the ramifications of my faith?
Or the lack there of
Has my curiosity closed the gates to my soul?
Am I the tempest to my own moral Armageddon?
In my knowledge have I become tainted?
Unable to ever again rely solely on faith
Unable to return to the ignorance others desire
Or will enlightenment be the savior of man
How is it we are educated to believe we are a reflection of invisibility
When a unification of matter is the vessel of our creation
And matter is a tangible fabric
Ignorance is the loom from which man has woven himself
When in truth the Sun is our father
Our mother is the Earth
And water the womb in which the seed of life was dispersed
By Mr.E. Jones
THE LAST SHADOW I CAST
All these words, that I am speaking. while from my veins, my blood is leaking.
For a love unfound, but always seeking. a crimson puddle, forms upon my floor.
When time has passed, and I am at my end. it’s to you my friend, that I shall send.
These words of why, I could not contend. alas my friend, I stand on sorrows shore.
So keep alive, the times we’ve had. I will say good-bye, to my mom, and dad.
Know that I, am no longer sad. the reaper waits, and he is at my door.
For a lifetime spent, in search of dreams. with sorrows scent, and lonely screams.
Lips upward bent, a smile it seems. alas my friend, within my heart I am dying.
All the years of tears, unseen by most. so raise your glass, for one final toast.
Next time we meet, I will be a ghost. rejoice for me, for I am no longer crying.
Memories fade, and in time you’ll forget. of this man you knew, and how we met.
I only hope, there will be no regret. the reaper waits, upon this I am relying.
In my abstract, comprehension. were it to be, for me to mention.
My soul is lost, in so much dissension. so to this my friend, I do condescend.
A question asked, of a day I remember. on journeys past, my twelfth December.
In my stocking cast, a piece o
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