The poem I read at Rakestraw:

He stands on corners, throwing stones at passersby
He watches them live their lives with an upturned eye
He doesn't care about their feelings, their problems or happiness
Because hate is the only emotion he can express
He kicks the ground, he curses the pain
He feels like dying because he can't feel life in his veins
And he walks home, to a room painted black
He turns on the TV but can't bear seeing those who only own a shack
Why watch people when he hates them all?
So he watches his window, watching summer turn to fall
And wonders why he has to be so alone in his world
He wonders what will be on his record when in heaven it's unfurled
He wonders if there is a life after this, a heaven, or a hell?
Why reward or punish someone who has done nothing but rebel?
So he stands up in his room, in this town he's come to abhor
And looks around, but all there is, is a mattress on the floor.

The echo of the waves seems to call me here
The tang
The mist
Of salted air
Settling over my skin
Egniting every inch with the fire of solitude

The sun is covered so that it doesn't exist
The muted blaze
The gray shroud
Of the sky overhead
And the humid air
Capturing every moment with a layer of fog

The calm and chaos of waves on the shore
The symphony
The hiss
Of crested swells
Breaking on the Shore
Falling back in place
Washing over time with a hush of carelessness

The warmth and ice of it all on my feet
The gentle softness
The harsh sharpness
Of sand and surf
Giving me comfort
Ripping it away
Refeshing me before I must return to reality

The blank stares of passersby

The empty bylanes, the deserted streets

Shadows creep like time lost

Sand running from the hourglass

Spilling across the cracks

Filling the crevices and the holes

The shouts and screams of the opressed

The pleas for mercy, the cries for salvation

Blood awash over the gray sky

The crimson red falls like rain

Soaking the earth

Feeding the unsatiable lust for pain

Champagne in crystal glasses

The furs and jewels, the privleged and lucky

Dollars shoved down the drain of waste

The jingle of coins a familiar sound

Littering the sink

People drunk with the spoils of suffering

The sighs and whispers of our past

The death of dawn, the end of an age

Superficiality used to hide true beauty

Blackness shrouding our faces

Hiding the truth

Does anyone wonder if humanity exists in a world where love is sold and you can buy yourself out of mistake?

People are made of places

They carry with them the sand in dunes

Harassed by winds, refelected in their eyes

The grace of salt from the ocean

A light air of mountain snow

Pine needles adrift in their hair

The atmosphere of fresh cut grass

And fields of clover

Dandelions beneath their feet,

Scattered dreams, a haze of lost wishes

The tall shadow of buildings overhead

City noise

Christening their foreheads with soot

The smell of dawn in the marketplace

The mist coming off a lagoon

Noisy chatter of a house at supper

The wafting call for prayer at noon

Where I come from people are made of the rain that soaks the streets.

The roar of a fireplace

The faraway comfort of the setting sun

And the wide expanse of sky overhead

Summer's grace, fall's passion

A canopy of fire overtaking the lazy lace of sun and stars

The blank stares of passersby The empty bylanes, the deserted streets Shadows creep like time lost Sand running from the hourglass Spilling across the cracks Filling the crevices and the holes

The shouts and screams of the opressed The pleas for mercy, the cries for salvation Blood awash over the gray sky The crimson red falls like rain Soaking the earth Feeding the unsatiable lust for pain

Champagne in crystal glasses The furs and jewels, the privleged and lucky Dollars shoved down the drain of waste The jingle of coins a familiar sound Littering the sink People drunk with the spoils of suffering

The sighs and whispers of our past The death of dawn, the end of an age Superficiality used to hide true beauty Blackness shrouding our faces Hiding the truth Does anyone wonder if humanity exists in a world where love is sold and you can buy yourself out of mistake?

The Grandmother looked at the faded picture, her hand brushing past the black and white faces portrayed in the misty image. The smell of lavender, powdery and delicate like lace, filled the air. Her hands, wrinkled and smooth, were thin, burdened by her past, her secrets. The bones jutted out, too harshe for the serene white pallor of her fingers. The skin streched acorss, papery and dry like old parchment. A chill settled in her joints, and shook their tired and fragile frame. They were a stark contrast from the youthful, glowing hands in the picture, the hands that clutched her beloved's chest. They seems alight with old memories, and better times. With beginnings, with the promise of a future filled with happiness and security. Now they were shadowed with endings. they were the hands that refused to let go, holding on to her past. She moved the black veil over her face, letting it crease and fall, shrouding her true image. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage, seeing the mourners in the mirror. It was time to move on.