Poetry

An Isolated System (Haikus)

Words, like bullets, fired

aimlessly at each other.

No impact, just noise.

* * * * *

Ringing ears, beating

hearts, calm demeanors. It the

silence that is heard.

* * * * *

Neither hot nor cold,

just doomed–it seems–to an

old viscous cycle.

Poetry

Will You Miss the Stars?

Can you see the light

of a million stars

at once or at all?

Can you name the constellations

and each seemingly small

orb that makes them up?

Can you walk upon

the surface of one

and not fill your shoes

with dust or fire?

Can you put one

in your pocket

for a rainy day?

Can you take a moment

to breathe

or will you miss the stars

by seeing them as

only stars?

Poetry

Grounded

Childhood nightmares

of riding in cars

with no drivers

are quickly becoming reality–

electricity everywhere,

runs everything–

but what happens

when the plug

is pulled?

For now,

perhaps an answer

is in the palm

of my hand.

Tomorrow?

Perhaps it’ll prove unfounded,

perhaps safely grounded

in one way

or another

Poetry

The Monument (Nightshift)

Her final night alive

Before the cadaver

Crumbles into oblivion

Forgotten, disappeared

In the sands of time

I stop by for the viewing

The parking lot is bare

Potholes and weeds

Now decorate the scene

Where cars and people

Filled the concrete void

It’s just me this time

A new soul pumping archaic

Nostalgia fuel for the road

I walk inside, dark and empty

The marble as cracked as ever

With a gleaming light

Of neon blue and gold

Storefronts barred shut

Once crying for consumerism

Now begging for eternal rest

I see in it’s main hall

The glass window up top

Letting moonlight shine

Giving a ballroom feel

But no music, no dancers

Just ghosts, memories,

Of a simpler time, maybe

Happier times, before society

Put bloodlust on mainstream

When being a new romantic

Didn’t include old hate

Or prejudice, when freedom

Wasn’t replaced with control

But I’m living vicariously

From the ones before me

Hoping, believing, that things

Weren’t always as bad

As they are now

I don’t stay too long

The drips from high ceilings

Birthing the odor of mold

Is just another symptom

Of the decaying relic

Of an era that has passed us

That people try to repurpose

Rebuild cheap, to sell us

The artificial memories

Of days gone by.

I leave my final goodbyes

Walking the footsteps

Of so many mall rats

Who looked for the escape

And I leave the monument

Behind, to rest in peace.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

If the title looks a little familiar, that’s because it’s from a poem I wrote around this time last year. This is my first “sequel” poem that I’ve written. I decided to write it since I felt I could expand even more from the first poem. This little “series” is dedicated to the weirdos like me who enjoy watching YouTube series about dead malls or going to them, fans of malls in general, or just simply feeling nostalgic about the 80’s and 90’s, and/or the good ol’ days.C. E. Knight

Poetry

Fast Songs

Slow song,

fast heartbeats,

a slow burn into a wildfire–

wasted whiskey to feed either vice

but thrown to the wind instead.

Was it love? Was it not?

Now flowers laid waste–

their petals fall,

fingertips from shaky hands

pulling them off

as if the flower knew

some answers.

What answers?

Who knew?

We didn’t.

Fast songs played us out.

Poetry

The Diary Entry (Ballad of a Dumb Kid)

I remember the first time

I felt empathy,

it was troubling, a feeling

that I could not work out

as I read something

I had no right to read.

I, I, I,

that is not the word

to use when thinking of it

because it was

you.

You had written those words

in private,

in a place you thought

no one would ever find it.

You had to share your world

while stuck between

a stone-hearted fool and

a hard-headed one.

You were the one

who endured.

There was hurt in those words.

A hurt I knew.

A hurt I felt.

We were just kids with the same problem

but we didn’t know it yet.

I only knew empathy for once

because your words

said what I thought too

even if what you wrote

was also of me.

Poetry

A Cold Day’s Warmth

They built fires built for warmth

but it is only there

that the legends,

the myths,

the tall tales are told.

Light flickers,

imagination rages brilliantly,

and the embers remain

come morning.

Restless hearts and minds

shaken from equally

restless sleep.

Warmth is gone

but the dream remains

throughout the day . . .

Oh

to be legends

someday,

myths among men,

taller than the tall tales

shared

some cold night

around the warm fire.

Someday,

oh, someday.