Knock, knock

We die from within and just like our statues
We dedicate to our eternal memory,
So many trinkets sculpted
From concrete, brass, plaster and wood.

We rot; inside, outwards
And so when Death
Is finally displayed on our faces,
Our friends
Are suddenly free to express with sheer amazement

That they never really knew us
All that well…



2009 © T.S.

On Behalf of Oprah and Other False Prophets (Whose names begins with O)

We Now Have Crony Capitalism...

We shout at them
believing they will care
if we can only be heard.
When alas, we learn
we are the deaf and they
are really the blind.
It is us who does not speak
their language
and it is them
who cannot read our lines.
They are the exotic fruit
We are the pit within
Both picked from the same tree
Both to be devoured
in the belly of the same beast…

2009 © TS

 Butterflies and Baby's Breath

The supreme feeling
Of capturing a living thing
Holding it in your hand
Admiring its beauty
Channeling its life force and spirit
Into your palm
Both of you
A heartbeat away
From death

2009 © T S