Sethair

'I thought you should know that your shoes are untied, And the left one has got a big hole in one side, Your laces are dragging; the tips are all frayed Like the hairs on a bow that has been overplayed, Your socks are quite nasty; the colors are worn; They're crusty and reek like my grandpa's French horn, But you shouldn't worry; I'm sure that they please The needs and desires of all of those fleas, And you really should tell the police in advance, When there's a war being fought on your pants; Your sizable army of stitch-it-on patches Just can't quite keep up with the cuts and the gashes, The buttons are missing at every third ho

His advisor scribbled a few illegible marks, muttering to himself every so often, as if the legal documents he examined contained some profound truth of great interest.  Hans Vibbard waited patiently, simply glad he wasn't standing in the line any longer; this whole "entrance process" had taken three entire days just to reach the office in which he now sat.  Every object in the perfectly cubic room was sleek, colored in shades of steel from the window frame to the nameplate resting on the aluminum desk, which read "Dr. Einrich: Office of Immigration" in embossed text.  Dr. Einrich's clean-shaven features matched the room quite well. "Good ne

Hoofprints For if it is God's wind that blows, That which 'twixt equine ears doth flow, Then of what value is the beat, Delivered by the horses' feet? The rhythm of a graceful waltz, The piaffes, canters, turns and halts, The dust that drifts about the air, Moved by the hooves that put it there. They dance along the ocean sand, As slow as Nature's steady hand, And at times they seem to race, But always with a sense of grace. More oft than not their passage leaves A mark upon the earth received By those who hear the South wind's chants: The tempo of the wild dance. Can you hear their bestial hymn, The singing of the Seraphim?

Fate There runs a river namѐd Fate, Whose waters flow 'twixt now and late, Whose surface shines with chilling dread Where splashes, ripples dare not tread. She runs across it, merrily, In dance-like joy – so casually! – Yet steps with grace enough to leave The slightest ripples to perceive. They spread beneath her nimble touch In rings, to grow, but never much; They bounce, reflect, and shimmer there 'Til Fate regains its icy glare – But the river runs with changѐd gait: The changes from the dance of fate.

Acceptance We pretend to have control of our lives, Falling in line, to dream, to wish That we can become something more Than we are – but we don't. We don't have control, a grip, a vice On reality to twist and bend and fold, To shape the truth, the chill steel of life, Into something it is not. No, we have not the hammer Not the strength nor tools nor fire; We never had, we do not have, We will not hold this ethereal power. And when we find the world unyielding -- The fibers strong, their strength unbending -- We flee, we hide, we seek to run From the icy grasp of truth, From the shadow, deep darkness shifting, That ch

You're Blind Find me the place For which I yearn, So tranquil and calm, Where nothing will burn; Find me the place Where I can stand tall, So diff'rent from here, Where I stumble and fall, I can't sleep; I can't wake, I'm stuck in Between The places I've been And the things that I've seen. Catch me and drag me Back onto my feet; I'm mentally falling And physically beat. I'm living and dying, Yet always I think; I can't pull away from My internal brink. 'Your mind is a gift, So diff'rent from ours'; I cannot escape These ethereal bars! How can our logic, Infallibly true, Begin to explain The things that we do? I