Volume 4. By Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
The Drifter
The drifter carries a small shovel to dig his own gravehe stands eerily beside a gravel roadunable to measure his soulhaving fled his humdrum life on the path to freedom that he never findshe never escapes his mindthe labyrinth insidedirt descends from his hourglass hands into a shallow holehe knows everythingyet wants nothinghe displays his scars reminding himself that he was once alivehe impales himself with invisible knivesand hurls himself into a unmarked graveas a random stranger oozes from his eyeshello godgoodbye deviltodayI'm the drifteruglyunkemptwalking into the sunready to vanish like singing skulls rolling into oblivionand tomorrowno one remembers him
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The Dead Magicians
all of our grandeur spawned a race of kings
soon confined to the ground
we know nothing
and madly want to revive what hasn't been found
free the birds from mercurial skies
we're minute projections lost in a forgotten world
caught in a labyrinth of lies
birds assemble above
awaiting the future race of kings
feasting on corpses
and flapping their wings
now the tree is swaying
branches fall on those who are praying
waning moments in our lean hour
dead magicians want one last ritual
to restore their power
and dance among souls
lost in the crevices of night
an ideal place for firewater seclusion
or a murderous plight
never embrace reality with a reason to remember
innocent crayon depictions of canyon kitchens
and glowing embers
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Gather Their Faces
fleshy creatures flaunting
wanting today
they gather their faces
and drool in the mirror
tracing their faults
and grow inferior
severed trees
angry
descending as everyone
threatening clouds roll in unison
creating for all intents
and purposes
a world undone
special rays bent on lunacy
drowning in that foul
urchin-wombed reality
who hasn't groveled in futility
it appears so dim
staring into the sky
maybe we expect too much from him
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In the Eyes of Obsession
only wanting to live again
attempting to mend
too lost to pretend
a wealth of strangers
a single friend
yet
I'm dying faster
a pace unknown to typical bastards
found the morning after
residing blindly with laughter
deceit
disaster
staring into a cracked mirror
a fool captivated by green
fear is my master
a dry-sanded loner
the feel of crackling leaves
tracing your face
unbelievable ease
arriving like a thief
a searcher
an echo in darkness
amplified by misery
inhibiting relief
tomorrow's promise
yes
I'm the pitiful strand
jousting at emaciated hands
stranded in certain space
wiping away stray shavings erased
listless beneath a yellow moon
reflecting on the blue river's glow
envisioning green
yes
I'm the fool
from a self-inflicted school
of cowardly drool
I think so
ambidextrous
death-clamped witness
fiery graffiti
I see your name
it's emblazoned by a colossal sun
shedding light on our trivial game
now I've come undone
left to special rays bent on lunacy
watch the coward run
trying to remember me
traveling in this finite brain
your cushion making me sane
delving deeper
a heathen bathing in acid rain
a derailed train
it's never the same for imagination's slave
swirling in countless dreams
listening for this bewildered buffoon
to embody clarity's whisperer
racing against eternity
unraveled not a moment too soon
basking in cohesive humility
dancing around a tomb
inventing
unrelenting
holding my breath
a millisecond from death
immortality is a comedian
oozing in every direction
a mirror in absence of reflection
sweet spirit streams
insanity gleams
you're my dream
now nothing is left
except
the fleeting vision of an emerald beauty
laughing at the paltry puppet
that is me
your face hides my reflection
and is all that I can see
a simple sigh
a towering erection
we'll never die
in the eyes of obsession
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Facetious
a wall of mirrorsswatted fliestelevisionrolling eyesanother visionunreality's guidefollowing the linesnowhere to hideempty mindscolorful pebblesemptied from an aquariuma stranger's emaciated handsthe one I loathewhen I'm not aloneshivering into madnesspainting your facewith crushed stonesa prattler's intrusionretreating with severed tongueaided by delusionrealizationscrutinyshameimaginationhurtful gamesmuddled reflectionsmake it realclarity's an artistnever a pillshackled by infinityoverkillfreed from herselfwho remembers greenrunning for a shadowwith nothing in between
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Clouds Can Have Faces
clouds can have faces
of varying
size
shape
and races
people reign
and fade into abstraction
reality is no less fleeting
listless
the whisperer is alone
beneath skies of blue
the moon is a mannequin's head
faceless
and
distant
a symbol of futility
less than figment
the befuddled look
of an inept liar
a fly in a scatter garden
*
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