He to Whom the Bow Belongs

Of All the Psychic Mystic Fools,

That Lie and Cheat and Rarely Tell the Truth

The Ones That Guess the Future Best

Are Those Destined to Foot the Boot.

It Matters Not the Size of Shoe

This Tells Them Not O Where They Step

Nor Color, Texture, Hue, Expense, or Model,

Can Make an Ignorant Man Hep

Previous Roads are Often Thought,

When Sought are Explanations of Depth

But Breadth is Breath,

In Moments Death

For What Makes Man Believe in Cards

And Zodiac and Leaves of Tea

Is not the Magic So Suppressed

But tis the Trick that was set Free.

Magician and Poet, Both Can Impress

Upon the Tabula Rosa Mind

By Catching Patterns Others Miss

Linking Mind with Mind and Kind with Kind

But Neither Artist can Impress

Or Catch A Pattern So Forgot

As He to Whom the Bow Belongs

For he Knows Best his Arrows Shot.

And He Who Dwells on Targets Missed

Or Fortunes Lost, Never To-Be Foretold

Or Rabbits that Died in the Hat

Or the Fact that Old People Get Old

Tis he who Looks Back Upon The Moon

Afraid to Face A Rising Sun

Who Knows Which Road He Will Soon Take

His Own Predictions Often Stun

For No Magician Can Prepare

To Lose On Stage His Magic Hat

Except The One Who Wants His Trick To Be

How He Can Never Find Where Its At.

What Hurts Me Worst
Is While I Hurt
I See You Feel No Pain
And Wonder If It’s Sweet Song
Is Still In Your Refrain

Or If It Ever Even Was
Or If It Can Be.

While Half Of “We”
Is Sad With Grief
It Shows A Morbid Face
The Other Half
Shows No Face At All
Its Soul Has Been Erased.

There's only Darkness Now

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