Pale Horse Rides

When the labor’s great

And appreciation’s rare

Why labor onward?


When the joy is gone

And in its place, a growing dread

What moves us forward?


When the pain rises

And drags us ever lower

Who can gaze skyward?


When life seems pointless

An eternal useless waste

How can we progress?

…And So Laments The Seeker

Crossing this desert

Barren emptiness washes

Across my eyes and bakes

My spirit into hardpan.

Void floods the vacant

Interstices deep within.

Seeking some solace

The radio offers naught.

In this embittered landscape,

Evangelists all

Preach fear, hate and damnation,

Adding salt to wounds

Long festered and encrusted.

No gracious balm to be found,

And so I journey onward.

Existential Questions

There must be more than this endless 

sequential waiting for something good to stumble my way.

Must I be wholly dependent

upon someone else to meet my needs in their own sweet time?

If I should choose to seize contol

of my destiny, would the earth screech to an abrupt halt?

Or would the dark powers that be

Awaken to my defiance, and seek my prompt demise?