poor it then poet

from by z.c.white

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White wicked ones
are gunnin for us all
They got horses made of steel an they're burning black gold
Times dripping from a dimensional bowl onto a universal countertop growing black holes
Light's refracting through a
Stained window casting iridescent scripture on crosses of gold
Wise women warn us of a grinding halt, singing man has learned us not to love, Revolt

Low bridge
yellow lights breaking up the road
shelter to the creek and addict below
Old elk is leaning on the sycamore
Brother to the pines and the sorrowful willow
Noble bones beneath the cellar floor
Within time what is unnatural?
Loaded gun and the old man on the porch,
can you still see what youre aiming for?

When consciousness caresses me,
The chaos in my wandering
that fills my waking thoughts and speech
are lightning striking some distant sea,
of dreams

Politician with pen
in hand
Grim reaper john hancock signing lives for land
Talk physician with your prescription pads,
send them wildin in the streets the rich will hatch a plan
Raw visage of the lonesome mountain man,
are you a portrait of the future or a love song from the past?
Law maker flying slow low robots over sand
Do you program them to kill or allow to understand?

College lit literature post-cannabis,
are they dreadlocked potato chip vegetarians?
Knowledge less competence
Fail the creators we make dollars not sense

When happiness consumes me,
I pour a glass of poison ocean sleep,
My demons are my company,
we set sail on some distant sea,
of dreams.


from quietly, in the mourning, released September 30, 2014


tags: folk Boone


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z.c.white Boone, North Carolina

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